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THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


AND 


THE WANDERER. 


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Turning his eyes to one side, he sees a young Indian seated on the 
trunk of a fallen tree,” — Page 148. 





The Winds, The Woods, 


AND 

The Wanderer. 


9L JFable far CljilOreiu 


/ by 



LILY F. WESSELHOEFT, 


n 

AUTHOR OF ‘^SPARROW, THE TRAMP,” AND “ FLIPWING, THE SPY,” 



c .z c 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
1890. 




Copyright, 1890, 

By Roberts Brothers. 




University Press; 

John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 


PEEFACE. 


“ Da ziehet leise, auf seine Weise, 

Der Liebe Herrgott durch den Wald/’ 

JN the story of The Winds, the Woods, 
and the Wanderer/’ the author has 
endeavored to depict an artistic tempera- 
ment that is misunderstood by the practical 
natures by which it is surrounded, — one 
that hears the voice of the dear Lord 
God,” as the Germans have it, speaking 
through the rustling of the forest-trees. 
This same artistic temperament the un- 
tutored Indian youth possessed ; and the 
two natures were drawn together by the 


VI 


PKEFACE. 


love of the beautiful that was implanted in 
the soul of each, and that interpreted to 
them the voices of Nature which to others 
are as a sealed book. 


LILY F. WESSELHOEFT. 

Boston, April 26 . 


l 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, AND 
THE WANDERER. 


CHAPTER I. 


HE large oak is really becoming un- 



sightly/’ said Mr. Merton to hi^ gar- 
dener, as they stood before an old oak, many 
of whose twisted and knotted branches were 
broken and bare of leaves. We will have 
a handsome young tree planted in its place ; 
and these dead limbs, cut into the proper 
length for the library fireplace, will last a 
long time. Yes, chop it down as soon as 
the busy season is over, and have it sawed 
and split and seasoned for the cool morn- 
ings and evenings next year.” 

The gardener was not as ready as usual 
with the “ All right, sir ! ” that was his cus- 


8 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

tomary answer to Mr. Merton’s orders, and 
the words came so slowly and reluctantly 
that his master did not fail to notice the un- 
usual hesitation. Well, what is the trou- 
ble ? ” he asked. It is rather a tough 
job, I know ; but you can choose your time 
for it.” 

That was not what I meant, sir,” replied 
the gardener. It was not the work I 
dreaded. The children, sir, are mighty 
fond of the old oak, and I ’m thinking it 
will not please them to see their ^play- 
house,’ as they call it, chopped down;” 
and as he spoke, the gardener glanced from 
the high swing that was suspended from a 
sturdy limb of the old oak, to a little board 
laid across two branches midway of the tree, 
on which rested broken pieces of crockery, 
a somewhat battered tin dipper, and a 
lemonade-glass with the handle gone. 

Any other tree will do as well for them 
to play in, and this oak will burn finely ; ” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


9 


and Mr. Merton walked away, humming the 
words of a cheerful song, and the gardener, 
with another glance at the old tree and a 
mournful shake of the head, walked away 
too. 

The old Oak rustled his scanty leaves, 
and a shiver ran through his branches. 

What a shame ! ’’ exclaimed a slender 
young white Birch that grew a few rods off 
and drooped her graceful branches over the 
brook ; who will be the next to go, I 
wonder ? ” and she glanced at the picture of 
herself the brook reflected, and shook one of 
her branches into a more graceful position. 

It is what I have been expecting for a 
long time,'’ answered the old Oak,‘ in a voice 
that was harsh and cracked from age ; and 
after all, it is just as well. My old limbs 
have become so brittle that they break in- 
stead of yielding to the rough north wind, 
and are full of rheumatic pains. Yes, it is 
just as well, I suppose.” 


10 THE WINDS^ THE WOODS, 

No, it is not just as well,” replied the 
white Birch, earnestly ; you forget how 
much you can still enjoy. As soon as spring 
comes, your sap begins to flow as lively as 
any of ours, and you really have some very 
pretty branches yet ; ” and the white Birch 
cast another glance at the pretty image of 
her silvery branches the brook presented. 

The old Oak was silent, and the serious 
expression of his knotted and wrinkled fea- 
tures showed him to be in deep thought. 

That cross old North-wind is enough to 
age anybody, I am sure,” continued the 
white Birch, soothingly ; I know if I did 
not make believe I rather liked it, and 
allow him to toss my branches about as 
much as he pleased, I should n’t have a 
whole branch left. Thank goodness, we 
shan’t see him again for one while. Give 
me a west wind, if you please ! ” 

Thank you, my darling ! ” breathed the 
West-wind, who had stolen up behind and 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


11 


given her branches a gentle toss. If the 
North-wind had a particle of taste, he would 
be more considerate ; but what can one ex- 
pect of such a rough old fellow ? ’’ 

The white Birch flaunted her leaves co- 
quettishly at the West-wind, and even said, 
Oh, do go away ! ’’ but she did n’t really 
mean it, and the West-wind knew she did n’t 
mean it ; and so did a thin and shrivelled 
Fir-tree with many bare branches that stood 
near by, for she gave a contemptuous toss 
of her head. 

Perhaps when you have examined your- 
self sufficiently in the brook, you will give 
me a chance to obtain a hasty glimpse of 
my foliage,” remarked the Fir-tree. 

Excuse me,” replied the white Birch, 
pertly ; I really did n’t observe that you 
had any foliage to arrange ; ” and she swept 
her long branches across the brook, and 
whisked a little shower of drops over the 
Fir-tree. 


12 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

That was done intentionally ! ” ex- 
claimed the Fir-tree, indignantly. You 
are so vain you think there is no beauty 
except in long, gawky branches and thin, 
rattling leaves. Did n’t you hear Edmund 
say the other day that he intended to make 
a picture of the old Oak and me, that he 
admired our irregular outlines ? Has n’t 
he taste, I should like to know?” 

Don’t quarrel, my friends,” interposed 
the old Oak. Is n’t the news we have just 
heard a lesson on the uncertainty of human 
life ? Dear Edmund ! how can I leave the 
dear boy ? Not one of my thoughts that 
he does not understand. The others too, 
— happy little Kate and honest, practical 
Fred ! Yes, that is hard, — to feel them 
no more climbing over my old limbs ; ” and 
the Oak was silent, as his voice died away 
in a trembling whisper. 

There come the children ! ” called out 
the white Birch. 


Now we shall know 


AND THE WANDERER. 


13 


what they think of it, if they have already 
heard the news.” 

Two boys and a girl came running 
towards the old Oak ; the girl, a vigorous, 
bright-eyed child, outstripping the boys, 
and throwing her arms about the old Oak, 
kissed his rough bark passionately. 

“ I will not have it, you dear old tree ! ” 
she exclaimed violently. I would rather 
they chopped my head off ! No, you pre- 
cious old thing, they shall not touch a sin- 
gle limb ! ” 

Don’t be a silly ! ” said one of the boys, 
evidently her brother, judging from the 
similarity of the features, although the ex- 
pression of the faces was totally different. 
“ You act as if it were a live thing, and not 
a half-dead old tree.” 

It is a live thing, I believe, Fred,” 
answered the girl, warmly; ^^and I love 
it, and it loves me.” 

I believe it too, Kate,” said the other 


14 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

boj ; it often seems to speak to me, and 
I am sure it understands me when I feel 
unhappy, for it rustles its leaves soothingly, 
as if it were trying to comfort me/’ 

Well, that is a joke,” laughed Fred ; 

I always knew you were a little soft, Ed, 
but I thought Kate had more sense than 
to believe such nonsense.” 

Edmund is not soft,” replied Kate, 
warmly ; he loves the old tree as I do, 
and as you ought to. Just think of the 
good times we have had in it ! And to 
think that we shall never have any more 
dinner-parties there ! ” 

The big chestnut on the lawn is just 
as good,” replied Fred, and much smoother. 
Just see all these great knots and twisted 
branches ! ” 

^‘That is the beauty of the tree,” ex- 
claimed Edmund, enthusiastically. See 
here ! I made this picture of it last night. 
Is it natural ? ” 


AND THE WANDERER. 17 

The next morning was gray and dismal, 
with a raw east-wind blowing. Everything 
looked dreary and gloomy ; and the East- 
wind seemed to enjoy the discomfort he 
created, and whistled through every un- 
protected cranny he could discover with 
an expression of as keen enjoyment as 
his discontented features were capable of 
expressing. 

The old Oak braced himself firmly, and 
patiently resisted the spiteful attacks of the 
irritable East-wind, occasionally giving ut- 
terance to a suppressed groan as'' one or 
the other of his rheumatic limbs felt a 
sudden twinge. 

The East-wind gave expression to a cyni- 
cal laugh as these half-smothered exclama- 
tions reached his ears. I have succeeded 
in touching you at last, my aged friend, 
have I ? Your philosophy is not wholly 
proof against bodily pain, is it ? ” 

Bodily pain is easier to bear than men- 
2 


18 THE WINDS^ THE WOODS, 

tal/^ replied the old tree. I would rather 
bear all the pain you can inflict on my poor 
old body than carry under my rough bark 
such a nature as yours.’^ 

^ It ’s an ill wind that blows nobody any 
good/ ” replied the East-wind, in his sharp, 
unsympathetic voice. ^^Now I always think 
the worst of people, and then I am not dis- 
appointed in them.” 

What a dreadful creature ! ” cried the 
white Birch, with a shudder. 

For answer, the East-wind blew one of 
his strongest blasts at the slender white 
Birch; but she allowed it to toss her grace- 
ful branches about at will, and her silvery 
peals of laughter rang joyously out. 

There 's freshness for you ! ” she ex- 
claimed, as soon as she recovered her 
breath ; for she knew that nothing would 
so annoy the irritable East-wind as to find 
he could not make everybody as uncom- 
fortable as he himself was. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


19 


Hoyden ! ’’ sneered the Fir-tree. I 
think it would be much more becoming 
in you to keep your branches where they 
belong, instead of flaunting them about so 
boisterously. Nature, I presume, intended 
them to screen your lank proportions.” 

I doubt that,” replied the white Birch, 
gayly. Why did she make thefn so lithe 
and long, if she did n’t mean that I should 
exercise them ? ” and she executed so 
many gambols with her supple boughs 
that the fir-tree looked another way in 
confusion too great for words. 

The East-wind seized this moment to vent 
all the power of his lungs on the Fir-tree. 

How dare you, sir ? ” she exclaimed 
angrily, trying to keep in position her 
scraggy branches. 

Don’t mind us ! ” replied the old Oak ; 
we are all old friends here, and should 
know the ways of the east wind by this 
time.” 


20 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

It is monstrous behavior,” exclaimed the 
Fir-tree, her cracked voice trembling with 
indignation. It is very well for you, sir, 
to say we are all old friends here ; but your 
sight is not so good as it once was, my 
friend, and does not extend above the 
clouds where those mischievous stars have 
been staring down all night and enjoying 
my discomfiture. Some of them, too, are 
undiscovered planets, and one does n’t 
know what to expect of them. Why, 
my mother came over in the ^ Mayflower,’ 
and do you think it the correct thing for 
one of her offshoots to submit to the curi- 
ous gaze of such obscure persons ? ” 

Don’t give ^yourself any uneasiness, 
dear Miss Fir-tree,” called out a voice 
from high above them ; we were all 
much too busy last night, I can assure 
you, to waste any time in trying to em- 
barrass you.” 

It is that mischievous Mercury. I 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


21 


know his voice/’ said the Fir-tree in a low 
tone, although the clouds hide his face.” 

What was it that kept you so busy, 
pray ? ” called out the Fir-tree after a pause, 
for the monotonous life in the woods made 
her curious to know what was going on in 
the big world. 

“We were watching the poor little lame 
girl in the village,” replied the far-off voice. 
“ She had a painful night, and could n’t 
sleep, so we amused her by shining in at 
her window. The dear child watched us 
all night, till the disagreeable East-wind 
came and blew so many clouds about that 
she lost sight of us. Fortunately the West- 
wind will soon be here.” 


22 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER II. 

ILL the West-wind soon be here, 



though ? sneered the East-wind ; 


and he flew into such a rage that he rushed 
blindly about, looking for some object to 
vent his spite on. Seeing the three chil- 
dren coming towards the old Oak, he gath- 
ered himself up for a great effort and 
rushed violently upon them, almost knock- 
ing them over as he struck them. 

‘^What a horrible wind !’' exclaimed Fred, 
holding his hat on with both hands. I 
wish I had stayed in the house.’’ 

So do I,” replied Kate, bringing the 
elastic of her hat under her chin to hold it 
more securely in place. Let ’s go back 
and play in the house! We can't have any 
fun out here while this horrid old East-wind 
is blowing.” 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


23 


Edmund took off his hat, and allowed 
the wind to toss his hair about, breath- 
ing deep breaths, and looking as if he en- 
joyed it. 

You don’t mean to say that you like 
this hateful wind ? ” said Kate, looking at 
her cousin in surprise. 

« Why should n’t I ? ” he answered. It 
is fresh and pure, and in its way as good 
as the West-wind you are so fond of.” 

It is cold and harsh,” replied Kate, with 
a shudder, and everything is gray and 
gloomy. When the sun is out, all is bright 
and cheerful.” 

We can’t have sunshine always,” said 
Edmund, thoughtfully ; we should become 
tired of - the brilliant light.” 

What nonsense you talk ! ” exclaimed 
Fred, impatiently. Come, Kate, let ’s go 
back to the house and ^ have a game of 
Parchesi till school-time, and Ed can stay 
here and enjoy his dear East-wind ; ” and 


24 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

away ran the children, leaving Edmund 
standing alone under the oak-tree. 

He looked at the forest-trees, their out- 
lines standing boldly out from their back- 
ground of soft gray clouds. Not a human 
being was in sight, not a sound heard but 
the voices of Nature that speak to an ar- 
tistic temperament. 

Am I so different from others ? ” said 
the boy to himself. They tell me I am, 
and I know they think I shall never amount 
to anything. I can never be a business man 
as they say Fred will, but there must be 
something for me to do in this big world. 
Is n’t it as much to paint a picture or 
compose music as it is to be a great 
merchant ? ” 

Much more,.” rustled the old Oak, 
softly. 

A thousand times more,” quivered the 
white Birch. 

Far more,” creaked the Fir-tree, warmly. 


AND THE WANDERER.^ 


25 


mindful that the boy had praised her artistic 
outlines. 

F ollow the dictates of your nature/’ 
rustled the old Oak again. You have an 
appreciation of Nature that finds the beauti- 
ful in everything. Listen to the voice that 
speaks within you, and it will lead you to 
great things.” 

It is hard to be misunderstood,” said 
the boy to himself, — “ hard to be told you 
are silly and talk nonsense, just because 
you say things different from other persons. 
Fred always gives satisfaction, and they say 
he will be a great man. I can never be 
like him.” 

Have patience,” rustled the old Oak 
in reply, and all will come right in the 
end. Each one finds his place in the world, 
and some day you will prove to them that 
you have something in you that they cannot 
understand.” 

My mother knew what was in me,” 


26 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

said the boy, and I will show them that 
she was right.” 

He stood looking about him with a 'happy 
expression on his face. The East-wind, in 
a softened mood, played gently in his wavy 
brown hair, and caressed his smooth cheeks. 
His face was bright with the thoughts that 
the comforting rustle of the old tree had 
awakened in him, and energy and will- 
power looked out of his dark eyes. He 
roamed about, his eyes taking in every 
picturesque group of trees and rocks. 

It must be school-time,” he exclaimed 
aloud at last. Dear me ! I am afraid I 
shall be late again ! ” 

The East-wind, for once in his life, felt a 
generous impulse towards the only human 
being who had felt a liking for him, and 
sent a vigorous puff after him as he start- 
ed off on a run in the direction of the 
schoolhouse. 

Edmund soon reached the little school- 


AND THE WANDERER. 


27 


liouse where he and his cousins were sent. 
The standard of education was not high in 
the town ; and Mr. Merton, a practical busi- 
ness man who had made his own way in 
the world, opposed his wife’s wish to have 
a governess with the argument that what 
was good enough for him was good enough 
for his children ; and she was obliged to 
submit to his prejudices, and be satisfied 
with the acquisition of a little knowledge 
of reading, writing, and arithmetic” that 
her husband considered essential for a prac- 
tical education. 

School was in session when Edmund ar- 
rived and hurried to his seat with cheeks 
glowing from his run. The teacher. Miss 
Stone, — a tall, gaunt woman of middle 
age, chosen more for her muscular ability 
to enforce discipline than for any intellec- 
tual requirements, — was walking the little 
platform with her hands folded behind her, 
and an unusually hard expression on her 


28 THE WINDS^ THE WOODS, 

grim countenance. As Edmund took liis 
seat, she paused in her walk and fast- 
ened her cold gray eyes on him without 
speaking. 

Dead silence reigned throughout the lit- 
tle room, as the girls on their side of the 
school-room and the boys on theirs gazed 
in speechless expectation from the teacher 
to Edmund, who, somewhat embarrassed 
under his teacher’s steady gaze, took a book 
from his desk and fastened his eyes on one 
of the pages. 

Edmund Merton,” began Miss Stone at 
last, “ arise ! ” 

Edmund closed his book and rose to his 
feet. 

Regard me, Edmund Merton ! ” con- 
tinued the teacher. 

Edmund raised his eyes, as directed ; but 
meeting the cold gaze of the hard gray eyes, 
he glanced at the faces about him, taking in 
the sympathetic look on his cousin Kate’s 


AND THE WANDERER. 


29 


face, and the amused expression on the 
faces of many of the older boys, detecting 
in them the pleasure they anticipated in the 
fact that their teacher had started off on one 
of the moral lectures she was so fond of de- 
livering, and the probability that it would 
last over the hour of the hard arithmetic 
lesson. 

Your conduct is atrocious, Edmund 
Merton,” continued his teacher. I have 
a letter in my desk,” bringing her hand 
hard on the desk beside her, in which I 
have expressed to your uncle the dissatis- 
faction I have experienced in your con- 
duct. My opinion is, as I have stated in 
the letter, that you will be a* dunce. You 
spend your time, as I have told your uncle, 
in scribbling senseless pictures when you 
should be attending to your studies, and 
appear late at school when there is no rea- 
son why you should not be here as punc- 
tually as your cousins are. What have 


30 THE WINDS^ THE WOODS, 

you to say in extenuation of your con- 
duct, Edmund Merton ? and as Miss Stone 
finished, she folded her hands behind her 
back and gazed fixedly at her delinquent 
pupil. 

A knock was heard at the door. 

Mary Jane Eastman, attend to the 
door ! ’’ said the teacher. 

Mary Jane opened the door, and in 
walked a tall lady in black, followed by 
three others in black ; and without a word 
the four black-robed figures passed in single 
file up the aisle, and ascending the platform, 
seated themselves on chairs that were ar- 
ranged against the wall. 

The eldest iJidy, the one who had entered 
first, raised her black veil ; and the three 
others followed her example. Then her 
eyes wandered over the faces of the bewil- 
dered scholars, until they rested on Ed- 
mund’s face ; and there they stopped, re- 
garding the boy with a severe expression. 


AND THE WANDERER. 31 

The eyes of the other three also wandered 
about the room, until they in turn rested on 
Edmund, whom they likewise regarded with 
the same severe expression. After a few 
moments of silence, the eldest lady gave a 
short cough, expressive of displeasure. The 
other three also gave a cough, expressive 
of displeasure. ^ 

On the entrance of the four silent visitors. 
Miss Stone had transferred her gaze from 
Edmund to them, and looked at each in 
turn. 

May I ask to what I owe the pleasure 
of this visit?” she asked after a while, as 
her visitors showed no disposition to break 
the silence. 

You may so,” replied the eldest of the 
party. Me and my daughters has come 
to enter complaint against one of your 
scholars here ; and a more impertinent 
youngster I never see in my life.” 

The teacher’s eye brightened. Here was 


32 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

a case that would bring into play her un- 
usual powers of eloquence. 

State your case, if you please,"’ she 
answered with alacrity, and I will sift 
the matter to the bottom.” 

It is pretty well sifted already,” re- 
plied the lady, and I know what I am 
talking about. To cut matters short, Ed 
Merton there said to the boy of a intimate 
friend of mine that me and my daughters 
reminded him of black beetles. Then, later 
on, he said to the same boy that my 
daughter, Ann Eliza here,” designating 
with a Motion of the head and hand the 
lady next her, did n’t know nothing about 
paintin’. He said as how she bought a pot 
of green paint and made them pictures that 
hang up in our front room. Now, I want 
to ask, is that the way to talk about a 
young lady that’s had a quarter’s lessons 
over to the seminary in Smithtown ? ” 
^^No, I should say that it was not,” re- 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


33 


plied Miss Stone, fixing her cold eye on the 
delinquent. 

Now, to come to the worst,” continued 
the eldest lady in black. She paused a 
moment to give effect to her words, and 
said, in a deep, strong voice, He said as 
how Ann Eliza did n’t know enough to paint 
their barn-door.” 

A subdued titter ran around the school- 
room; but it was suddenly checked, as the 
teacher, bringing her closed hand on her 
desk with a force that made it ring, re- 
marked in a loud voice, — 

Silence, all ! I will have justice done ! 
Edmund Merton, you hear of vrhat you have 
been accused ? You shall make to this in- 
jured lady all the reparation that is in your 
power. You shall ask her to forgive you 
for your sinful words, and afterwards you 
shall ask pardon of the lads in the school 
and then of the lassies.” 

Dead silence followed these words. Ed- 


3 


34 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

mund’s color deepened, and his head was 
thrown back somewhat farther than usual ; 
but there was no indication of fear or 
submission. 

First, bow to the lady and ask her for- 
giveness,” said the teacher, standing with 
her arms folded behind her and her thin 
lips tightly compressed. 

Still Edmund made no move towards the 
injured lady. 

It ’s no more than right he should take 
back his words,” said Ann Eliza, who had 
not spoken before. 

will take them back,” said Edmund, 
with a roguish twinkle in his brown eyes; 
‘‘she is fit to paint our barn-door.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

TT 7HAT is going on, I should like to 
know ? ” exclaimed the white Birch, 
impatiently, the next day. The West- wind 

has been back and forth between the house 
and the old Oak all the morning, and they 
speak in such low tones I can’t hear a 
word. What can it be, I wonder ? Do 
you know anything about it ? ” she asked 
of the Brook. 

The Brook braced himself against a large 
stone in order to steady himself. ‘‘ Do I 
know anything about what ? ” he asked. 

About what is going on,” replied the 
white Birch. There is some secret be- 
tween the West-wind and the old Oak; and 
it concerns the family at the house, I know, 
because I heard their names mentioned.” 


36 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

You are right,” replied the Brook, myste- 
riously ; there is a secret, and I am in it.” 

What is it ? ” cried the white Birch, 
eagerly, bending forward to listen. 

‘‘ If I should tell you, it would be no 
longer a secret,” whispered the Brook ; and 
he started off at a rapid pace towards the 
ocean, whither he was always hastening. 

“ Impertinent fellow ! ” exclaimed the 
white Birch, angrily, as she gave him a 
parting thrust with her long branches. 

What can one expect of such a va- 
grant?” remarked the Fir-tree. I wonder 
at your indiscretion in conversing at all 
with him.” » 

Oh, I am not so dreadfully particular 
as all that,” replied the white Birch ; your 
awfully proper people are very tiresome to 
me. I must say I prefer those who have 
seen something of the world.” 

^‘I should expect just such opinions from 
you,” replied the Fir-tree. “ It used to be 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


37 


the custom for those who are just budding 
out to form their opinions from their elders; 
but now each bud has her own opinion be- 
fore she is fairly out.’’ 

That talk about buds coming out is so 
silly ! ” exclaimed the white Birch, pettishly. 

I am determined not to ask anybody’s 
advice about coming out, but when I want 
to come out I shall come.” 

I should say you w^ere pretty well out 
already,” replied the Fir-tree, in a ‘sarcastic 
tone that was very irritating to the nerves 
of the white Birch. 

And what is more to the purpose,” 
continued the white Birch, pertly, I mean 
to stay out.” 

Oh, do go away ! ” exclaimed the Fir- 
tree, pettishly, as a sparrow lighted on one 
of her boughs for a moment, and gave one 
of her buds a peck. 

Why, that is Sparrow, the Tramp,” 
cried the white Birch. 


38 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

I know that, and I don’t care to have 
such a common, roving fellow light on my 
boughs. I wouldn’t mind a bluebird, or 
a robin, or any bird of refinement, stopping 
for a moment to rest ; but such a common 
fellow as the sparrow ! ” replied the Fir-tree, 
indignantly. 

^^He shall light on me as often as he 
likes,” said the white Birch, warmly. Be- 
sides, he has reformed, and takes good care 
of his family now. See ! there he goes 
with a big worm in his beak to take home 
to them. I heard him say the other day 
that he had found two gray feathers in his 
head ! I think he ’s real jolly ! ” 

I should have supposed he would 
suit your taste ! ” remarked the Fir-tree, 
sarcastically. 

What ’s the trouble, my dear ? ” asked 
the West-wind, suddenly rustling the leaves 
of the white birch. 

Stop a moment ! ” called the white 


AND THE WANDERER. 


39 


Birch, throwing out her longest branches 
to detain the West-wind, who never re- 
mained still many minutes at a time. 

You must tell us what is going on at 
the house.” 

What makes you think there is any- 
thing going on there, pray?” 

I know there is, for you have been 
lurking about there all the morning, and 
I heard you talking with the old Oak about 
the family, and I am certain I heard Ed- 
mund’s name mentioned several times.” 

You shall know all in good time,'' an- 
swered the West-wind, but I really cannot 
stay just now.” 

It is always so,” said the white Birch, 
pettishly ; you are the most restless crea- 
ture I ever knew, — worse than the Brook, 
even. The South-wind is much nicer than 
you are ; he is never in a hurry.” 

Au revoivy my darling,” called out the 
West- wind, blowing several kisses towards 


40 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

her as he rushed off in the direction of the 
house. 

I have a great mind to ask the old Oak,” 
said the white Birch to herself. He is so 
dignified I am afraid he ’ll think I ’m pry- 
ing, though ; but I ’m just as interested in 
the family as he is. Yes, I will ask him.” 

Now that the white Birch had made up 
her mind to question the old Oak, she was 
somewhat at a loss how to begin ; so she 
rustled her leaves noisily to attract his 
attention. 

The old Oak glanced towards the white 
Birch. She was such a pretty, slender 
young creature that she was a great fa- 
vorite ; for although beauty of character 
has more weight in the end than external 
beauty, still a pleasing exterior is very at- 
tractive, and no one is too old to come 
under its influence. 

Did you speak, my dear ? ” asked the 
old Oak, kindly. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


41 


How well and fresh you are looking 
this morning, dear friend ! ” began the white 
Birch, in her most winning tones are 
you feeling as well as you look ? ” 

Pretty well, thank you ; but I ’m grow- 
ing old, little friend. I ’ve stood here for a 
hundred years and more. Why, I was here 
even before the Revolutionary War. I can 
remember well the excitement when war 
was declared, — when Edmund’s great-grand- 
father, a fine young fellow with ej^es and 
complexion like his, enlisted. Then the 
Mexican war ; that was farther off, and 
did n’t make so much stir. Why, it seems 
only yesterday that the Southern Rebellion 
was going on. You can remember that, my 
dear ; you were a straight young sapling 
then. Yes, generations have come and gone 
since I have stood here. The old fellows 
will soon have to make room for younger 
ones.” 

But you are young, — as young as any 


42 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

of US, dear friend. Your spirit is young, for 
you never lecture and moralize as if you 
never had a youth yourself. I believe some 
never were young, they have so little sym- 
pathy for those who are ; and the white 
Birch tossed her branches and cast what she 
intended to be a withering glance at the 
Fir-tree, who pretended not to see her, and 
persistently looked in the opposite direction. 

I try to be charitable towards all,” re- 
plied the old Oak ; for you know we all 
make mistakes, my dear.” 

I hope nothing is wrong at the house,” 
ventured the white Birch, after a pause. 

N-o,” answered the old Oak, quietly, 
I think not, — nothing that will not right 
itself in time.” 

I knew I was right,” said the white 
Birch to herself, and she waited for the old 
Oak to continue; but he was provokingly 
silent. 

I hope Edmund is not seriously ill,” 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


43 


ventured the white Birch, at random ; for 
the old Oak must be drawn out, or she would 
never arrive at the truth of the matter. 

No, Edmund is not ill,” answered the 
old Oak, in the same calm tones. The 
dear hoy is very well, as he always is.” 

Oh, yes, so he is ; I forgot. It is Kate 
who is ill, is n’t it ? Or is it Fred ? ” 

“ Kate and Fred are both in their usual 
good health, so far as I know.” 

Then what in the world is the mat- 
ter ? ” burst out the white Birch, impetu- 
ously. ‘‘Do tell me what is going on, for 
I can’t stand this suspense any longer. 
Why, I love those children so well, have n’t 
I a right to know everything that con- 
cerns them ? ” 

The old Oak considered a moment, and 
then answered calmly, — 

Yes, my dear; I see no reason why 
you should n’t know what I know. I have 
always been in the habit of keeping things 


44 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

to myself, I have such a dislike to gossip. 
/.My mother used to say to me, ^ Don’t be- 
lieve more than half you hear, and don’t 
tell half of that.’ So you can readily im- 
agine, my dear, that I have become very 
reticent. Yes, there can be no harm in your 
knowing what is going on. The West- wind, 
who is always pretty wide awake, has been 
telling me this story. Can you hear me, 
madam ? ” asked the old Oak of the Fir-tree, 
with old-time gallantry. 

Perfectly,” replied the Fir-tree, gratified 
to be treated with so much consideration. 
^^You must know,” began the old Oak, 
that Edmund has gotten into trouble at 
school.” 

That is nothing new,” said the white 
Birch, gayly; ^^he is always in trouble 
there.” 

This time,” continued the old Oak, the 
trouble is a serious one. He has been ac- 
cused of making unkind remarks about a 


AND THE WANDERER. 


45 


certain family in town, and his teacher has 
informed his uncle of the fact, and he insists 
on the hoy’s making an apology. Now Ed- 
mund says he did not make the remarks of 
which he is accused, and Kate and Fred say 
he did not ; but his uncle is very indignant 
about the affair, and chooses to believe the 
account of the teacher.” 

At this moment the West-wind came 
hurriedly along. 

Outrageous ! ” he exclaimed excitedly ; 
his uncle still prefers to believe the teach- 
er, and she has always been prejudiced 
against the boy. Kate and Fred refused 
to take the note home, and she sent it by 
two of the large boys. Half-a-dozen others 
went too, hoping to see some fun.” 

Do you mean to say that Edmund’s 
uncle doubts his word, when he knows he 
never told a lie in his life ? ” exclaimed the 
white Birch, indignantly. 

Yes ; but his aunt takes his part. His 


46 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

uncle, you know, is never satisfied with him, 
because he does n’t take to arithmetic as he 
thinks he ought to.” 

The poor boy feels very unhappy, I pre- 
sume,” remarked the Fir-tree. 

^^Yes, he is dreadfully cut up about it, 
but he is too proud to let them see it.” 

Will he apologize ? ” asked the white 
Birch. 

Apologize for what he did n’t do ? Not 
he ! He has made a mistake, though, for 
which I am sorry, as it only tends to com- 
plicate matters.” 

What is that ? ” asked his listeners at 
once. 

You see they accused him of saying that 
Ann Eliza Partridge was n’t fit to paint their 
barn-door. He did n’t really say it ; but his 
love of fun got the better of his judgment, 
and when she said he ought to take back 
his words, he said he would take them back, 
— she was fit to paint their barn-door.’^ 


AND THE WANDERER. 


47 


At these words the Brook, who had been 
flowing quietly along in order to listen, here 
tittered audibly, and the trees rustled their 
leaves noisily. 

Here he comes!'' exclaimed the West- 
wind ; you can judge for yourselves of 
his state of mind." 

The West- wind sped rapidly towards the 
woodland, whistling softly to himself as he 
went; the old limbs of the Oak creaked 
and groaned as he moved them uneasily 
about ; the white Birch swayed and rustled 
until her silvery leaves quivered in the 
sunlight, and the stately Fir-tree sighed 
deeply. 

The Fir-tree did certainly look uncom- 
monly well a few mornings later, for a light 
shower had freshened her dry foliage, and 
the softened light was more becoming to 
her than bright sunshine. Moreover, she 
was in a cheerful mood, and that was the 
best of all. 


48 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

‘‘ What can be about to happen ? The 
Fir-tree is in an amiable mood, and has 
spent at least an hour arranging her stiff 
needles,’’ remarked the white Birch, in an 
undertone to the Brook. 

Don’t you know ? The South-wind is 
coming,” whispered back the Brook. 

What has Biat to do with it, pray ? ” 

“ Did n’t you know he is a great favorite 
of hers, and she thinks he returns her ad- 
miration ? My opinion is that it is too 
much trouble for him to be fond of any- 
body but himself,” answered the Brook. 

‘^Well, that is a joke!” laughed the 
white Birch, till every silver leaf quivered. 

What is the fun between you two ? ” 
asked the Fir-tree, good-naturedly. It is 
not fair to keep it all to yourselves. Let 
others enjoy it too.” 

At this, the white Birch laughed louder 
than ever, the brook tittered audibly, and 
even the old Oak-tree, infected by their 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


49 


young spirits, rustled his leaves in gentle 
response, although he had not the faintest 
idea of the cause for merriment. 

The Fir-tree made a feeble attempt to 
join in the mirth ; but it was not done 
with a good grace, for she suspected the 
mischievous white Birch and the unreliable 
Brook, and had a secret misgiving that 
she herself might be connected with their 
merriment. 

All at once the Fir-tree shook her foliage 
into a more becoming attitude, and sighed 
softly several times. 

The South-wind is here,” whispered the 
Brook to the white Birch, as a soft breeze 
rippled his smooth surface ; observe 
her!’^ 

The Fir-tree greeted the South-wind with 
smiles, breathing soft sighs as she gazed 
admiringly on him, and trying to sway 
her stiff boughs in the graceful manner the 
white Birch did ; but her awkward branches 
4 


50 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, ' , 

did not bend as she fancied they would, 
and a shower of dry needles fell to the 
ground. 

The white Birch burst into a laugh once 
more, and became so convulsed with merri- 
ment that her slender form rocked until 
her long branches dipped recklessly into 
the brook ; and when she recovered herself 
sufficiently to raise them again into their 
proper position, they were dripping with 
water. 

‘^Wet as a drowned rat!” exclaimed the 
Fir-tree, with an expression of disgust, as 
the white Birch shook herself ; ‘‘ don’t drip 
on me, if you please.” 

By no means,” replied the white Birch, 
managing with another shake to send a 
shower of drops in the direction of the Fir- 
tree. 

‘‘ What is all this about ? ” asked the 
South-wind, in his indolent tones. Don’t 
quarrel, for I have something to tell you.’^ 


.""^AND THE WANDERER. 51 

What is it ? ” cried the white Birch, 
eagerly, her desire to tease the Fir-tree 
quickly vanishing. 

The Fir-tree too, at the words of the 
South-wind, forgot to resent her injuries; 
and the lively Brook even stopped to 
listen. 


52 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER IV. 

S I was on my way here,’’ began the 



^ ^ South-wind, in his usual moderate 
tones, I met the East-wind ; and as soon 
as I saw him coming, I knew that some- 
thing had happened to disturb him, for he 
was greatly excited, and muttered angrily 
to himself. ^ What ’s the matter ? ’ I called 
out as he rushed by me. ^ Matter enough ! ’ 
he answered fiercely ; ^ I have just now 
learned the most outrageous news ! ’ and 
when he became a little calmer, he told 
me the following story : He was passing 
over a farm in the eastern pg^rt of Maine, 
when he heard a familiar name mentioned, 
and he stopped to listen. The farmer and 
his wife were talking about Edmund Mer- 
ton. You know Edmund is a great favor- 
ite with the East-wind. I believe the boy is 


AND THE WANDERER. 


53 


the only human being he loves/ and you 
can imagine the state of his mind when 
he learned that Edmund Merton, that boy 
so full of talent, who appreciates so fully 
all of us, is to be sent to live on that farm 
with that man and his wife, whose souls 
cannot appreciate anything beyond their 
potatoes and cabbages ! ” 

Dreadful ! ’’ exclaimed the white Birch, 
as her foliage rustled with indignation. 

The old Oak uttered a groan of despair, 
and the Brook gave vent to his feelings by 
dashing himself violently against the bank 
and sending spray high into the air. 

The old Oak was the first to recover him- 
self. Why is this done ? ’’ he asked, in a 
voice that was unsteady with emotion. 

His uncle despairs of making him prac- 
tical, and thinks by placing him on this 
farm he can stop his dreaming and drawing, 
and put something useful in their place,” 
replied the South-wind. 


54 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

other words, he will crush out the 
love of the beautiful that God has given 
him, and mould his nature to suit himself,’’ 
said the old Oak, sadly. 

And is it possible his aunt approves of 
this plan ? ” asked the white Birch, indig- 
nantly. She is so fond of him, and has 
always taken his part so generously when 
they have found fault with him for mak- 
ing gj-ctures ! How can she approve of 
such an unjust arrangement?” 

She does not approve of it/’ replied 
the South- wind. She has used every ar- 
gument in her power to induce her hus- 
band to alter his determination, so the East- 
wind told me, but you know how obdurate 
Mr. Merton is when his mind is made up.” 

“ Then there is nothing for us to do but 
make up our minds to part with the dear 
boy,” said the old Oak, with a sigh. 

A puff of fresh air suddenly appeared, 
setting every leaf in motion, and ruffling 


AND THE WANDERER. 


55 


the surface of the brook. The South-wind 
started up. Here comes the East-wind!” 
he exclaimed, I must be going ; ” and he 
slowly disappeared, as the East-wind came 
blustering up. 

Is n’t this a pretty state of things 1 ” 
exclaimed the East-wind, excitedly. 

“ It is very sad,” replied the old Oak, 
sorrowfully. 

Well, what do you propose to do about 
it ? ” demanded the impatient East-wind. 

I can do little,” replied the old Oak, 
but watch over him and sympathize with 
him.” 

How can any of us help him, pray, 
rooted to the spot as we are ? ” asked the 
white Birch. 

You and I, my dear, cannot do much, 
it is true,” replied the old Oak ; but others 
can. Cannot the East-wind visit him, and 
cannot the Moon and Stars watch over him 
at all times, and bring us tidings ? ” 


56 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

That is true,” replied the white Birch ; 
but think of his aunt and his cousins, 
who are so fond of him. TJie^ cannot 
understand us when we try to comfort 
them; and they love him so dearly! But 
here come the children ; they will be sure 
to talk about Edmund’s going away.” 

The three children came slowly towards 
the old Oak ; Edmund between them, hold- 
ing a hand of each of his cousins. 

“ This is the last time you will see our 
dear old Oak-tree for ever so long,” said 
Kate sadly, as they stood under its spread- 
ing branches. I declare, it ’s the mean- 
est thing I ever heard of. You shdnt 
go, there 1 ” and she stamped her foot vio- 
lently, and winked very hard to keep back 
the tears. 

I tell you what,” said Fred, decidedly, 
we ’ll save up all our pocket-money and 
spend our vacation with you next summer, 
won’t we, Kate?/’ 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


57 


‘‘ Yes/’ answered Kate ; indeed we 
will.” 

Good-by, dear old tree ! ” said Edmund, 
throwing his arms about the rugged tree 
and laying his cheek caressingly against it. 

I never see you again, I shall always 
remember you; and when I am a man, if 
they have not cut you down I will build 
steps about you, and plant vines to twine 
around you and make you beautiful. And 
if they do cut you down, I shall still re- 
member you, and make pictures of you ; so 
you see you can never be forgotten.” 

We shall write to you very often,” 
said Kate, and tell you everything we 
do.” 

And I ’ll make pictures of the farm 
and send them in my letters, so you will 
know how everything looks there,” replied 
Edmund. 

I wish I could draw too,” said Kate, 
^^and then I would make pictures of the 


58 THE WITOS, THE WOODS, 

old oak and the brook and the white 
birch and the old fir-tree ; but as I can ’t 
draw, writing is the next best thing.” 

I shall never forget any of them,” said 
Edmund. When I am homesick I shall 
make pictures of them and of all of you, 
and I shall almost be able to imagine my- 
self at home.” 

Children,” called Mr. Merton from the 
lawn, it is time for Edmund to get ready. 
The train leaves in half an hour.” 

Does it ? ” cried the East-wind, in a 
great rage. The train may leave in half 
an hour ; but Edmund shall not, if it 's 
only to prevent you from having your 
way for once in your life, you hard man, 
you!” 

That ’s right,” exclaimed the white 
Birch, her boughs rocking to and fro in 
her excitement, as the East-wind dashed 
by, setting the brook foaming and leaping, 
and speeding towards some black clouds 







“ He was answered by a heavy peal of thunder from the black clouds, 
followed immediately by a sharp flash of lightning.” — Page 59. 



AND THE WANDEKER. 


59 


in the west that had been silently gather- 
ing there. 

Up came the black clouds, driven before 
the angry East-wind, and growing blacker 
and blacker, until they stood directly over- 
head, giving sullen answers to the impetu- 
ous East-wind. 

‘‘ There ’s thunder and lightning in those 
clouds,” called out Mr. Merton to the lei- 
surely advancing children ; hurry home 
before the rain comes ! ” 

He was answered by a heavy peal of 
thunder from the black clouds, followed im- 
mediately by a sharp flash of lightning; 
and as the children reached the house, 
down came the rain in torrents. 

“ The heaviest thunder-storm we have 
had this season,” said Mr. Merton, as peal 
after peal broke over the house, and the 
brilliant lightning flashed before their 
eyes. ^^It is too severe a storm to take 
a horse out in ; and if it does n’t sub- 


60 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

side soon, Edmund will not get away till 
to-morrow.” 

The storm did not subside until the train 
was well on its way towards the north- 
east. Kate and her brother, starting as 
the heaviest peals crashed overhead, re- 
mained in the darkest corner of the room, 
covering their eyes with their hands as the 
sharp flashes blinded them ; but their cou- 
sin, standing at the open window, watched 
fearlessly the black clouds sending forth 
their angry defiance to the East-wind, his 
dark eyes glowing with pleasure as the 
wind blew about his wavy brown hair 
and caressed his smooth cheeks. 

The morning after the thunder-storm was 
bright and fresh ; the east-wind had given 
place to a clear west-wind, and as soon as 
breakfast was over, Edmund went to take 
farewell of the old familiar scenes he was 
so soon to leave. 

He climbed to his favorite seat among 


AND THE WANDERER. 


61 


the branches of the old Oak, and sat there 
long, gazing into the woodland beyond and 
dreaming of the unknown life that lay be- 
fore him. The West- wind played gently 
among the leaves of the old Oak, rustling 
them softly, and breathed lightly on the 
face of the young dreamer. The Brook 
rippled softly by, and the white Birch 
rocked her long branches soothingly in 
the light breeze, while the Fir-tree sighed 
an accompaniment. Abandoning himself 
to these influences, the boy dreamed on, 
until by degrees the murmur resolved itself 
into voices. 

Where you go, I will follow,” the West- 
wind seemed to say, and I will bring you 
the odors of the woods you love so well; 
surely that will seem like messages from 
home.” 

Messages from home,” the white Birch 
seemed to murmur, as the breeze gently 
swayed her long boughs. 


62 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Messages from home,'’ sighed the Fir- 
tree, softly. 

Be true to yourself," the old Oak 
seemed to rustle, that your old friends 
may be proud of you. The sky is not 
always clear, — clouds and storms are 
needed as well as sunshine; try to find 
beauty in them as well. Nature has given 
you that love of the beautiful to lead you 
to higher things; never lose sight of it, — 
it will help you over many a dark way.” 

‘‘ I never 'will," said the boy, in reply ; 
will try to see some good in every- 
thing.” 

Dwelling on these comforting thoughts, 
the boy sat there until his cousins came 
to find him. 

Edmund’s aunt and cousins took a sad 
farewell of him that afternoon ; and as he 
drove down the avenue by his uncle’s 
side, he struggled manfully to keep in 
subjection the grief that swelled in his 


AND THE WANDERER. 


63 


throat and moistened his eyes. The West- 
wind, true to his promise, accompanied 
him, and seemed to breathe encouragingly 
on his hot cheeks, and rushing along by 
the Brook, rippled its smooth surface, caus- 
ing it to murmur cheerfully at him as he 
passed ; then again, darting in among the 
forest-trees, it swayed the long branches of 
the white Birch, rustled the leaves of the 
old Oak, and sang through the boughs of 
the Fir-tree, sounding like cheery voices 
bidding him be brave and hopeful. 

So soothing were these voices to the 
unhappy boy, that by the time the depot 
was reached he could bid his uncle good-by 
with a steady voice. 

Don’t give way to any nonsense, my 
boy,” was his uncle’s parting advice,* but 
stick to work. I never yet saw a boy 
that fooled away his time making pictures 
and such senseless trash, turn out a sen- 
sible business-man. When you feel in- 


64 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

dined to indulge in such nonsense, just 
take a pencil and go to ciphering for 
a while. That’ll take the nonsense out of 
your head, and you ’ll be doing some- 
thing useful into the bargain.” 

Edmund promised to do his best, and 
stepped on board the train that was to 
take him far from the only home he 
had ever known. 

The journey was not devoid of interest to 
the young traveller. As the train whirled 
by forests and open fields, he seemed to 
recognize familiar forms, — now imagining 
he caught a glimpse of the slender white 
birch, or the old oak, or the prim fir-tree. 

The West-wind still followed the train ; 
and the thought of this faithful friend keep- 
ing by his side was a comforting one. 

By noon the next day, the cars stopped 
at the station where Edmund’s journey 
ended, and he stepped on the platform of 
the little station and looked anxiously 


AND THE WANDERER. 


65 


about him. A stage-driver who was stand- 
ing near approached, saying, Be you 
the boy that ’s going over to old man 
KimbaH’s ? ” 

Yes, sir,” replied Edmund, relieved to 
find somebody on the lookout for him. 

Well, then, sonny, I ’ll take you ’long.” 

Edmund was soon seated on the box of 
the stage by the driver, with his trunk 
stowed safely on behind. The day was 
fine, the soft west-wind gently blowing ; 
and these combined with the motion of 
the stage did not fail to produce an ex- 
hilarating effect on the boy’s susceptible 
nature, filling him with hope and courage. 
The driver was sociable, as a true stage- 
driver always is, and the two chatted like 
old friends. The drive was a long one ; 
and once, when they stopped to water 
the horses, Edmund took a block of paper 
from his pocket and resorted to his favor- 
ite amusement. When the stage started 


5 


66 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


again, the driver looked on the paper and 
exclaimed, — 

Well, if you ain’t got the black mare 
down there as nat’ral as life, — and old 
Jake too, — and the stage, and all! Well, 
I never ! ” he continued, as Edmund gave 
the finishing touches to the figure holding 
the reins ; there I be, old hat and all! ” 

Edmund finished his sketch and began 
another, the stage-driver looking on in 
open-mouthed astonishment. 

What in the world be you caflating to 
do down to old man Kimball’s ? ” he asked 
at last. 

“ I ’m going to pass the summer there,” 
replied Edmund, with some embarrassment. 

He ’s a relative of yourn, I expect ? ” 
asked the stage-driver. 

^‘N-o, not exactly,” answered Edmund, 
evasively. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


67 


CHAPTER V. 



HE stage-driver hesitated to question 


^ the boy farther, but he was curious 
to learn the reason for this visit that seemed 
to him so out of place. After a pause he 
continued, — 

Ever been this way before,^ sonny ? ” 

No, sir,” replied Edmund. 

Your father ’s well acquainted with old 
man Kimball, I s’pose ? ” 

Edmund saw it was of no use to evade 
the good-natured driver’s cross-questioning 
any longer, and, always truthful, thought it 
best to satisfy his curiosity at once. 

^^My father is dead, and I live with my 
uncle,” he said simply. He hesitated a 
moment, and the color rose to his cheeks 
as he continued : You see my uncle 


68 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

wants to make a business man of me, and 
doesn’t like to have me spend my time 
making pictures ; and he thought — so he 
sent me down here.” 

Now it seems to me, sonny,” said the 
stage-driver, that if them pictures you ’ve 
jest made is samples of what you can do, 
your uncle ’d better put you to some busi- 
ness where you could work your talent in, — 
like a printer, or a daguerreotype business, 
for instance.” 

That ’s just what he does n’t want,” re- 
plied Edmund, sadly ; he means to make 
a business man of me.” 

“ There ’s more ’n one kind of business,” 
said the stage-driver, hopefully ; and it 
stands to reason you ’d do best in what ’s 
in your line. Well, here we be at old man 
Kimball’s ! ” 

The stage drew up before an unpainted 
wooden house, black with age. A small 
patch in front of the house — once a gar- 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


69 


den, but long neglected — was fenced off by 
itself; tall, rank grass was growing among a 
few straggling tiger-lilies and peonies. A 
gravel-walk, overgrown with weeds and 
grass, led up to the front door, that evi- 
dently had not been opened for many 
years. 

An old man who had been standing at the 
back door came around to the large gate that 
opened on one side of the garden-patch, as 
the stage drove up. 

As Edmund glanced at the old man with 
whom his home was to be for some months, his 
heart sank as he met a pair of cold gray eyes 
and a hard face without a touch of the soft- 
ness that makes old age attractive. Perhaps 
the kind-hearted stage-driver saw the look of 
disappointment that came into the boy’s sen- 
sitive face, for he said in a low tone, as he 
wound the reins around the whip, before he 
descended to take off the little trunk, — 

If the old man uses you rough, sonny. 


70 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

you jest let me know. I pass this way every 
day, and I ’ll stand a friend to you.” 

Thank you, sir,” replied Edmund, warmly. 
‘‘ I ’ll remember it.” 

Edmund and the farmer took the little 
trunk around to the back door, — Edmund 
turning to watch the departing stage, and 
answering the driver’s salute before he 
passed out of sight, feeling as if his last 
friend had deserted him. 

The farmer’s wife, busy in the kitchen, 
merely glanced at him as he passed through, 
and continued her work ; but her face told 
the boy that he could expect no more sym- 
pathy from her than from her husband. 

^^You may as well go up to your bed- 
room and put on your old clothes ; these 
ain’t fit to work in,” said the old man, in 
a voice that corresponded with his hard 
face. 

The room Edmund was to occupy was a 
large attic that extended the length of the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


71 


house. The walls were not even plastered, 
and the rough boards and beams gave it 
a cheerless look. There was a window at 
each end, and a low bed with a patchwork 
quilt stood in one corner. 

You ’d better keep your window shut 
nights,'’ said the farmer, as he left the' 
room, if you 're afraid of bats. The old 
woman cleared out the bats’ nests last 
week, and if you keep your windows shut 
you won’t be bothered by ’em.” 

After Edmund had changed his clothes, 
the farmer took him to the potato-field, 
gave him a hoe, and told him he expected 
him to keep the weeds out. 

Unhappy and homesick as the boy was, 
he kept diligently at work, until all at 
once a puff of fresh air reached him, and 
looking in the direction whence it came, 
he saw in the distance the blue ocean, and 
heard the surf breaking against the shore. 

I know you,” the Ocean seemed to say 


72 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

to him ; I know all about you from the 
little brook that flows through your uncle’s 
farm, and I will bring you fresh breezes from 
there ; so don’t feel sad.” 

As Edmund listened, his heart grew light- 
er, and he worked more cheerfully, longing 
for night to come, that he might go to his 
attic and write the letter he had promised 
to send to his cousins. 

After supper he was sent to bring the 
cows from pasture, and the farmer showed 
him how to milk; and by the time his 
work was over, it was so late that when 
the tired boy reached his attic, he could 
hardly see to write. He could not have 
a light, the woman told him, for fear of 
fire ; and she advised him to go at once 
to bed, for he would be called early in the 
morning. 

Edmund threw open the window, for the 
air in the room was hot and stifling, and 
taking his paper and pen to the window, 


AND THE WANDERER. 


73 


sat down to write. After a few minutes 
he could not see the lines ; but all at once 
out came the Moon. I will help you,” 
she seemed to say ; I will give you all 
the light I can, although these dark clouds 
are doing their best to stop it.” 

Edmund kept on writing ; the clouds 
meanwhile trying to hide the moon, and 
the moon doing her best to shine through 
them. At times it grew so dark that 
Edmund was obliged to stop, and then the 
moon suddenly shone out and he could see 
once more. Contending with these diffi- 
culties, it was late before the letter was 
finished and sealed and directed, and then 
the lonely boy undressed and went to 
bed. 

A bat flew in at the open window and 
fluttered noiselessly about in the large at- 
tic, and it was company for the homesick 
boy. “I shouldn’t wonder if that were 
the bat ‘ Flipwing ’ I’ve heard of,” said 


74 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Edmund to himself ; “ at all events I ’m 
glad of his^ company, and I hope he ’ll 
stay ; ” and pleased with the thought, the 
weary boy was soon asleep. 

Edmund was called early the next morn- 
ing, and he helped milk the cows and after- 
wai’ds drove them to pasture. Then he 
harnessed the farmer’s horse into the open 
wagon, and the farmer started for the vil- 
lage, taking Edmund’s letter with him. 

The drive to the village was a long one; 
and when the farmer was well on his way 
and passing through a lonely place in the 
woods, he took out Edmund’s letter, broke 
it open carefully, and unfolded it. The 
first thing that met his eyes was a picture 
of the farm, with himself and his wife, all 
as natural as life. 

Confound this east-wind,” muttered the 
farmer, as the wind rustled the letter he 
held in his hand ; it beats all how it ’s set 
in jest as I wanted to read this letter. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


75 


So the youngster is at it the first thing, 
is he ? Thouglit he ’d give ’em an idee of 
the way he found things to ^old man Kim- 
ball’s, did n’t he ? Well, he won’t make 
much out of that job.” So saying, he an- 
grily tore the picture in two. At the 
same moment the East-wind, with an un- 
usually strong gust, caught the pieces, let- 
ter and all, out of his hands and carried 
them over the fence into the woods. 

The torn pieces of the picture sailed far 
away, and disappeared over the tree-tops, 
but the heavier letter caught on a bush 
and remained fast. 

’T is n’t just the thing for that letter to 
go flying about the country,” said the far- 
mer to himself ; there ’s no telling whose 
hands it might fall into, or what ’s in it. I ’d 
better tear it up, I guess. Whoa, Major ! ” 

The wind now blew higher than ever, 
and Major was not pleased at the prospect 
of standing still ; so he fidgeted about, the 


76 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

letter meanwhile floating farther and far- 
ther ofi*. 

After several minutes spent in inducing 
Major to stop, the farmer at last dismount- 
ed, climbed the fence, and approached the 
letter, that now rested on the topmost bran- 
ches of a clump of elderberry-bushes. As 
he was about to reach up and grasp the 
letter, a sudden gust of wind seized it and 
bore it rapidly towards the tall forest-trees. 
At the same moment Major, who by this 
time had pawed quite a deep hole in the 
soft earth, protesting against the delay all 
the while by impatient shakes of the head, 
decided to stop no longer; and the same 
gust that bore away the letter so aggra- 
vated him that off he started. 

The sound of rattling wheels caught the 
farmer's attention, and he at once abandoned 
all thoughts of securing the letter, and 
followed the horse as rapidly as possible. 

Major had no intention of running away, 


AND THE WANDERER. 


77 


— he merely did not feel in the mood of 
standing, or possibly he feared he might 
take cold remaining still so long in the 
raw east-wind ; so he went at a very mod- 
erate gait, and when he heard the farmer 
running after him and calling to him to 
stop, he gradually slackened his pace, and 
finally stood still. By this time the letter 
was far out of sight, hidden among' the 
thick forest-trees, and the farmer continued 
his way to the village. 

Meanwhile life at Edmund's old home 
went on much the same as usual ; but his 
aunt followed the boy in her thoughts, 
and longed to be near him to comfort 
him in the lonely life she knew he must 
lead. His cousins missed him sadly, and 
although they had often laughed at the 
romances his active imagination wove for 
them, and termed them ‘^Ed's nonsense," 
they felt that much joy had passed from 
their lives that they could not supply. 


78 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

No letter came from Edmund, and they 
could but wonder at the delay. His aunt 
feared he was ill ; but her husband assured 
her he had heard of his safe arrival from 
the farmer. The man is doing as I told 
him,” said Mr. Merton, — keeping the boy 
busy ; and that does n’t leave him time to 
write. Work is the only cure, I know, for 
a boy that has n’t any taste for practical 
things. If anything is to be made of Ed- 
mund, that is the only way I know to bring 
it about.” 

If I could only see him and know him 
to be happy,” said his tender-hearted aunt, 
“ I should feel easier about him. He is so 
sensitive to his surroundings, I am afraid 
he will be homesick.” 

It will do him good to rough it among 
strangers,” replied her husband. ^^He is 
too thin-skinned for a boy. If he were 
my own son, I should do the same.” 

‘^Sensitive as he is,” replied his wife. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


79 


he is so brave and conscientious, he will 
make the best of whatever comes to 
him.” 

His old friends, the trees and the brook, 
waited impatiently for news of their 
favorite. 

What is the matter, pray ? ” asked the 
white Birch, a few mornings later, as the 
Fir-tree turned from her with an expres- 
sion of extreme disgust on her sharp 
features. 

^^If you are not aware of the impro- 
priety of the expression you just now 
used,” replied the Fir-tree, I should think 
it time you were set right.^' 

What expression did I use ? ’’ asked 
the white Birch, with a surprise that was 
evidently genuine ; I am sure I can’t re- 
member saying anything out of the way.” 

“ You said,” replied the Fir-tree, after 
carefully looking about to see that she 
could not be overheard, and reducing her 


80 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


voice to a whisper, that your limbs ached 
from keeping them in one position so 
long/’ 

Oh, yes, so I did ! ” replied the white 
Birch. I said my limbs were so stiff 
that it would be a relief to have the East- 
wind, or even the rough old North-wind, 
come and toss us about a little.” 

It would sound better, I should say, 
to refer to your houghs or your brancheSp' 
said the Fir-tree, with great dignity of 
manner. 

So it would,” answered the white Birch, 
demurely; will endeavor to remember 
it in future. I know I am shockingly 
careless, but, as you often say, it is the 
spirit of the age. Pray tell me some of 
your own experiences when you were young 
like me. I am sure they would be very 
instructive.” 

The Fir-tree glanced sharply at the white 
Birch, to see if she were in earnest; but 


AND THE WANDERER. 


81 


the white Birch looked so innocent and 
demure that it was impossible to doubt her 
sincerity, and the subject was a favorite 
one ; so, after settling her foliage into a 
becoming attitude, the Fir-tree began her 
recital. 


82 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER YI. 

‘^TV/fY mother has often told me that her 
^ youth was passed in a fine forest 
in England, where, she assured me, the 
company was very select,” said the Fir-tree. 

My mother herself was a most stately 
and imposing tree, and most particular 
about the deportment of her family. I 
often wonder what would be her feelings 
if she could have seen me since, thrown 
as I have been in such varied company, 
some of whom she would not even have 
allowed me to look at ! ” and the Fir-tree 
sighed. 

Your mother must have been a delight- 
ful tree. I wish I could have known her ! ” 
remarked the white Birch, reverently. 

She was ; she was English, you know. 
Well, one day she was taken up by the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


83 


roots and tied in a bundle with several 
others, and put on board a vessel. It was 
the ^ Mayflower ; ’ but I presume you have 
heard the story, so I will not repeat it.’’ 

I should think I might know it,” whis- 
pered the white Birch to the Brook, ‘^1 
have heard it often enough ; ” and the 
Brook giggled in reply as he went on his 
way. 

My mother,” cbntinued the Fir-tree, 
who had not overheard the words the 
white Birch had whispered to the Brook, 
was planted here, and after some years 
I came to keep her company. The place 
was then a wilderness ; and oh, the con- 
trast to the life she led in England ! We 
have seen Indian settlements about us, and 
gypsy tribes have camped at our feet. I 
have seen tree after tree cut down and de- 
stroyed, — among them my poor mother.” 

All at once a gentle breeze swayed the 
branches of the white Birch, and rippled 


84 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

the surface of the Brook that had been 
silently flowing, and rustled the leaves of 
the old Oak; the Fir-tree sighed softly as 
it passed over her dry boughs. 

^^Here comes the West-wind,” interrupted 
the white Birch, joyfully; thought we 
should see him to-day. Have you heard 
anything of Edmund ? Have you seen 
him lately ? ” 

Yes,” answered the West-wind, ‘‘1 have 
seen him, and have not such good news as 
I should like. Poor boy ! it will not do to 
let this state of things go on much longer. 
I fear they will succeed in crushing out his 
talent unless a change is effected.” 

‘‘ They can never do that,” said the 
white Birch, decidedly ; he has too much 
spirit to submit.” 

He will become tired of struggling 
against fate,” replied the W est-wind. Hard 
work and a joyless life will in the end 
subdue the most spirited and ambitious.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


85 


Bat tell us your news ! ” exclaimed 
the white Birch, impatiently ; the old 
Oak must hear it too.” 

Certainly I must,” replied the old Oak ; 
anything that concerns Edmund interests 
me, and I must confess I am greatly trou- 
bled about the boy, and have many plans 
in my old head to aid him.” 

We may need your advice before long,” 
replied the West- wind ; “ but now for my 
news.” 

The West- wind then related the story 
of the lost letter, as told him by the East- 
wind. 

It 's an ill wind that blows nobody 
good,” said the white Birch, ^^and the East- 
wind did a good thing for once in his life. 
He was always good enough to Edmund, 
though.” 

Who could help loving him ? ” rustled 
the Oak-tree, sadly. 

While these warm friends had such lov- 


86 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

ing thoughts for him, the poor boj was 
living a joyless life with the farmer and 
his wife. 

All day# long he worked on the farm, 
comforted by the sound of the ocean in 
the distance and the presence of the cheer- 
ful West-wind, — longing for night to come, 
that he might retreat to his attic and draw 
pictures of the scenes and faces he loved 
so well. The white birch, the fir-tree, the 
brook, the old oak with his cousins playing 
about it, became such a reality as he drew 
that he almost forgot he was not there in 
the old familiar places. 

One night, looking for his pictures, he 
could find them nowhere ; and to his anx- 
ious inquiries the farmer’s wife replied that 
she had burned them up, as she was n’t 
going to have such trash littering up the 
house.” 

The next morning, as she entered the 
kitchen, her eyes fell on a drawing of her- 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


87 


self thrusting the pictures into the stove, 
— a large scroll issuing from her mouth, 
with the words above mentioned. 

Soon after, the farmer sent him to the 
village with eggs to sell, and he was very 
glad of a break in the monotony of his 
life. He sold the eggs, the shopkeeper 
giving him articles from the store in ex- 
change. As he was leaving the store, he 
saw a piece of chalk lying on the floor, 
and picking it up, handed it to the shop- 
keeper, who told him he might keep it if 
he liked. Edmund thanked him and put 
it in his pocket. 

Several men were standing on the plat- 
form in front of the store, whiling away the 
time by conversation and taking observa- 
tions of the passing teams ; and among them 
was an old man who had once been a 
sailor. His beard and hair were white, and 
his weather-beaten face was full of strong 
lines ; his red flannel shirt was open at the 


88 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


throat, giving a picturesque effect ; and the 
thought that he would make a fine picture 
occurred to Edmund. 

The group in front of the store were so 
busily engaged that they took no notice of 
the boy, who, taking from his pocket the 
piece of chalk, began his picture on the 
side of the store. Just as he was putting 
the finishing touches to the beard, a small 
boy came up behind him and looked over 
his shoulder. 

If that ain’t old uncle Abe ! ” he ex- 
claimed suddenly. Good gracious ! be you 
a printer ? ” 

The men looked around when they heard 
this exclamation, and were as much sur- 
prised at the picture as the small boy had 
been, one after another requesting the young 
artist to make a picture of him. When this 
was done, he drew a picture of the farmer ; 
and they laughed heartily at it, for he was 
not a favorite. Edmund had made a long 


AND THE WANDERER. 


89 


scroll coming from his mouth, with the 
words, Come, boy, slat ’round and do 
up the chores ! ” 

The next day the farmer had occasion 
to go to the village, and his attention was 
at once attracted to the side of the store 
where Edmund had drawn the portraits. 
As usual, a group of men were assembled 
there, and the farmer’s curiosity led him 
to join them. 

The likeness of the old sailor first at- 
tracted the farmer’s curiosity, then he rec- 
ognized other familiar faces, and at last 
his eyes fell on his own portrait, with the 
expression he so frequently used issuing 
from his lips. It was unnecessary to ask 
the name of the artist; he knew at once it 
could be no other than Edmund. 

‘‘ By jingo ! I ’ll take that nonsense out 
of him yet,” he muttered angrily. It ’ll be 
the last pictur he ’ll make for one while ! ” 
Oh, what ’s the harm in it?” said one 


90 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

of the men standing near. ^^Let the boy 
have a little fun ! ’’ 

His uncle sent him to me to git this 
nonsense tuk out of him, and I ’m bound 
to do it,'' replied the farmer, harshly. 

The boy did n't intend no harm," said 
another bystander. Why, see here ! he 's 
made my eyebrow all drawed down by that 
big scar I got into the war. It don't make 
me look pretty, but. Lord ! what harm does 
it do? Let him have his fun out of it." 

I 'll take it out of him ! I ’ll larn him 
to make game of me afore he 's much older,” 
answered the farmer, as he entered the store. 

When the farmer reached home, Edmund 
was at work in the field, unconscious of the 
trouble that threatened him, and the farmer 
entered the house. Contrary to his usual 
custom, he went upstairs, and cautiously 
entered Edmund’s room. Bare and devoid 
of comfort as the room was, an air of neat- 
ness pervaded it. The rough table under 


AND THE WANDERER. 


91 


the little looking-glass contained his writing- 
materials, and pinned under the glass was a 
picture of his old home. 

There ’t is again/' muttered the farmer 
to himself ; I '11 put a stop to it, though ! " 
and taking down the picture on which Ed- 
mund had expended so much loving care, 
he roughly crumpled it and put it in his 
pocket. 

Where in thunder does the boy keep his 
box of paints ? " said the farmer to himself, 
as his eyes wandered about the room. They 
were nowhere in sight, but his eyes fell on a 
pen-and-ink sketch pinned over the bed. 

Drat the boy, if he don't make picturs 
with ink too ! Well, I '11 stop that." 

The inkstand and pen were taken, and the 
search for the missing paint-box resumed. 

Every corner was searched, but nothing 
like a paint-box appeared. At last the 
farmer's eyes fell on the little trunk in 
the corner. 


92 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

I was a fool not to have thought of that 
afore,'’ he muttered to himself. 

The trunk was unfastened, and he raised 
the lid. Everything was in good order, for 
the boy took pains to keep his clothes in the 
places his aunt had placed them when she 
packed his trunk at parting. Yes! there 
was the paint-box, by the side of his aunt’s 
picture ; and the farmer seized it eagerly. 
Under it was a small block of drawing-paper 
and a case of pencils. These followed the 
inkstand and pens. 

The farmer was not yet satisfied. His 
hard, coarse hands pushed aside the various 
articles in the trunk, and during the search 
a small purse was brought to light. 

I ’ll take that too,” said the farmer 
to himself, or he ’ll be gitting morn paint 
and things. I can’t stop it no other way.” 

As he rose from his stooping position, he 
struck his head sharply against the low 
rafter above him, and a small, dark object 


AND THE WANDERER. 


93 


fluttered out of the dark corner. He started 
guiltily ; but it was only the little bat who 
made his home in Edmund’s room. 

The farmer crept out of the room as a 
thief might have done, but without one 
thought of compunction at robbing the 
lonely boy of his one innocent pastime. 

Meanwhile Edmund was at work in the 
potato-field, with his mind far away on his 
old home. Visions of the field, with the 
brook running through it, into which the 
white birch dipped her silvery branches, — 
the stiff fir-tree, preserving at all times 
her stately dignity, and never forgetting 
to assume a becoming attitude, — and the 
old oak, every one of whose withered bran- 
ches he knew and loved so well, and in 
whose .shade he always fancied his cousins 
at play, — all these pictures rose in his 
mind and comforted him as he worked. 
Could practical Fred have accomplished 
more without the aid of these fancies ? 


94 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

At times came the sense of injustice at 
the course his uncle had pursued in order 
to crush out what he felt was the best 
part of his nature, and at the thought 
the hot young blood mounted to his face. 
Then, when angry thoughts filled his 
mind, a gentle breeze from the west 
would breathe softly against his heated 
forehead and soothe the angry thoughts 
to rest. Or a fresh pufi of east-wind 
from the ocean would rush by him, and 
breathing in the brisk air, he would say 
to himself, I will not despair ; I will 
accomplish something yet ; ” and he would 
return to his work with renewed vigor. 

That evening the cows were milked ear- 
lier than usual, the kindling and wood had 
been put in the wood-box by the kitchen 
stove, and although the sun had set, there 
was still light enough to tempt the boy to 
spend an hour out of doors. He strolled 
along the lane, his eyes fixed on the bright 


AND THE WANDERER. 


95 


clouds where the sun had disappeared be- 
hind the tall forest-trees. 

If I had only brought my paint-box,” 
was his thought as he watched the bright 
sunset-colors gradually die away and re- 
solve into subdued tints. • 

Suddenly a thought came to him, and he 
took from his pocket the piece of chalk 
the shopkeeper had given him. 

He was opposite a low shed where sheep 
were kept in cold weather, and stepping up 
to it, he began to sketch rapidly, for day- 
light was fast going. Taking the farm- 
house with the orchard in front for a 
background, he made a picture of the field 
and pasture, with the sun setting over the 
woodland in the distance. 

Although a piece of chalk was his only 
implement, and for a canvas the rough boards 
of the sheep-shed, that, never painted, had 
become almost black from exposure to the 
weather, a strong sketch grew under his 


96 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

skilful fingers ; and as the young artist 
stepped back to view his picture, the old de- 
sire to work for his art alone grew stronger 
than ever. 

So abstracted was he that he had not ob- 
served the figure of the farmer approach- 
ing ; and as he stood lost in thought, the 
harsh voice of the farmer startled him from 
his revery, — 

^‘1 thought I had tuk all that nonsense 
out of you ; but I ’ll do it yet, if it takes 
me all summer,” were the words that roused 
him from his dreams. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


97 


CHAPTER VII. 

T^DMUND confronted the farmer sud- 
^ denly, all the resentment he felt for 
this hard master returning more violently 
from contrast to the happy mood he had 
been in while drawing his picture. 

What have I done wrong ? ” he ex- 
claimed vehemently. ‘^If it is wrong to 
paint pictures, it is wrong to have beautiful 
sunsets and skies and trees.” 

It is fooling away your time,” replied 
the farmer, taken by surprise by the boy’s 
eager manner. You won’t never amount 
to anythin’ ’s long as you spend your time 
in sech senseless ways.” 

Am I taking time that does n’t belong 
to me ? ” asked the boy. I work hard 
all day, and I have a right to do what I 
please when my day’s work is over.” 

7 


98 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

‘‘ No, you hain’t,” replied the farmer, 
picking up, as he spoke, the piece of chalk 
that Edmund had placed on the window- 
sill of the old shed. ^^Your uncle told 
me that he ’d made up his mind to make 
a business man of you, and said as how 
he ’d determined to make you quit this 
habit of scribbling.” 

You can’t stop it,” said Edmund, hotly. 
“The pictures are in me, and you can’t 
blot them out. I know the time will come 
when I can have my way.” 

Don’t be so sure of that! I’ve tuk 
away your paintin’ things, and I guess the 
picturs will hev to sta^ in you for a spell,” 
said the farmer, with a chuckle of satisfaction. 

“ Do you mean to say you ’ve dared to 
take away my paint-box ? ” exclaimed Ed- 
mund, violently. “ Why, that ’s stealing 1 ” 

“Call it what you please, it’s what I’ve 
done,” replied the farmer as he turned to- 
wards the house. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


99 


Edmund stood looking after the farmer 
in indignation that rendered him speech- 
less. So long as this one resource of draw- 
ing remained to him, he could bear his 
hard lot ; but now that this consolation 
was denied him, he felt utterly abandoned. 
Harder thoughts than he had ever known 
came rushing through his excited brain, 
as he felt this last injustice was greater 
than he could bear. 

Long the boy stood in the spot where 
the farmer had left him, struggling to keep 
back the rebellious thoughts that came so 
fast and strong ; realizing, as he had never 
done before, how completely he was in the 
power of this hard, unfeeling man. 

By degrees he became conscious of a 
gentle breeze that breathed over his heated 
face and seemed to caress his cheeks. 
am still with you,’’ the West-wind seemed 
to say, I will not leave you. Try to be 
patient, and all will come right at last.” 


100 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The sound of the surf breaking against 
the rocks fell on his ears like the voice of 
an old friend who would say, Remem- 
ber that we hear, from the Brook, of your 
old home; your friends there have not 
forgotten you.” Then the parting words 
of the old Oak rose to his mind. 

These are the clouds,” he said to him- 
self ; 1 will try to be patient till sunshine 

comes.” 

He turned and walked rapidly back to 
his lonely attic, and sat long after day- 
light had died away, looking out at the 
sky lighted by the moon and stars, build- 
ing many castles in that bright firmament. 

While thus occupied, he heard a slight 
rattling at his door, the key was noise- 
lessly turned in the lock, and the forlorn 
boy started suddenly from his dreams to find 
himself a prisoner in his dreary attic. 

Edmund lay tossing about on his bed 
until late into the night, forming many 


AND THE WANDERER. 


101 


plans in regard to his future, and chang- 
ing them as soon as they were made. The 
injustice and harshness of the farmer, in- 
stead of intimidating him, as the farmer 
imagined it would, roused all the resent- 
ment in his nature. At last, worn out 
with the thoughts that surged through his 
brain, he fell asleep and was awakened 
by the opening of the door. Starting up 
suddenly with the momentary forgetfulness 
that follows heavy sleep, he saw the far- 
mer at the door; and as he caught sight 
of him, memory returned, and the events 
of the evening before rose vividly to his 
mind. 

I have made up my mind,” said the 
farmer, deliberately, to settle this business 
to once. Now, this is a plain statement of 
the case. You promise to give up this 
habit you ’ve fallen into of making pic- 
turs, and I ’ll let you out ; but if you 
won’t, why I ’m resolved to keep you here 


102 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

on bread and water till you give in. You ’d 
better make up your mind to do as I 
want you to, for you ’ll find me soty 

My mind is made up,” replied Edmund, 
calmly, as he sat up in bed and looked 
fearlessly at the hard face of the farmer. 

I shall not give up making pictures. 
It ’s the only comfort I have now, and 
there ’s no harm in it.” 

You ’ll repent your bargain when it’s 
too late,” said the farmer. Bread and 
water, and living alone in this attic 
with the key turned on you will bring 
you to terms before long. I ’ll crush it out 
yet.” 

You cant crush it out,” replied the 
boy, resolutely, as his anger rose. You 
can’t take the blue out of the sky, or stop 
the birds singing. Even this bare old at- 
tic with its rough rafters makes a picture 
in my mind that you can’t efface ; and you 
too, with your hard face, standing there 


AND THE WANDERER. 


103 


and tlireatening me ! I could draw you 
from memory if I were an old, old man; 
and I will do it too. My uncle shall 
know how unkindly you have treated 
me.’’ 

You won’t make much headway there, 
I guess, young man. Your uncle sent you 
here a purpose to git this habit of yourn 
broke up, and I ’m bound to do it. If 
you ’re sot, you ’ll find me sot too.” 

My uncle never meant for you to treat 
me so cruelly. He had no idea you would 
make me work so hard, either; but that 
I don’t mind. He was never unkind to 
me, except in not understanding me, and 
thinking there is only one way for a man 
to get along in the world. I shall let him 
know what a cruel man you are ! ” 

You will, will you ? ” said the farmer, 
stepping up to the bed with his hand 
raised ; but something in the boy’s fear- 
less face, as he squared his shoulders and 


104 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

steadfastly met his gaze, caused him to 
stop, and his hand fell to his side. To 
strike the boy was further than he dared 
go. Not liking to meet the honest brown 
eyes fastened on his face, he turned and 
walked to the door. 

Stay here, then, if you like it so well,’’ 
muttered the farmer, as he went out and 
turned the key in the lock after him. 

The next two days passed heavily, and 
Edmund spent most of the time in gazing 
out of the window, where, far over the tall 
forest-trees, he caught a glimpse of the 
blue ocean. Once again the farmer had 
appeared, to ask him if he were ready 
to give in ; ” but with that exception, the 
farmer was the only human being to whom 
Edmund had spoken since his imprison- 
ment. Three times a day the farmer’s wife 
unlocked the door and set on the floor just 
inside the door a piece of dry bread and 
a pitcher of cold water; but she neither 


AND THE WANDERER. 


105 


spoke to him nor looked at him. The lit- 
tle bat that came out every night at twi- 
light and fluttered noiselessly about, was 
company for him, and he knew just when 
to look for his coming. A little mouse 
too, at first timid and suspicious, grew ac- 
customed to his presence, and came boldly 
out for the crumbs he spread for him. 

Thus the first two days of Edmund's 
imprisonment drew to a close, and in his 
solitude one of the many thoughts that 
had come to him gained strength as the 
time wore on. He would go back to his 
uncle, and lay the facts of the case before 
him , and he felt sure his uncle would do jus- 
tice to him. How to accomplish this — in 
what way to escape and . reach the cars that 
would take him home — was a question that 
puzzled him. The farm was five miles from 
the village, and the depot some miles from 
there ; and he feared the farmer would 
overtake him before he had gone so far. 


106 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

He remembered the words of the kind- 
hearted stage-driver, but he knew it would 
be impossible to escape recognition if he 
rode on the stage in broad daylight. 

One thing was certain, — he must start 
as soon as possible after the farmer and 
his wife were asleep for the night. Money, 
too, would be needed ; but on that score he 
felt no anxiety, for the purse that his un- 
cle had given him and liberally filled was 
safely packed away at the bottom of his 
trunk. 

« Why not start this very night ? ’’ 
thought the lonely boy, as the plan ma- 
tured in his mind. 

The sun was setting in the western sky ; 
he judged that it might be five o’clock, and 
still several hours must elapse before he 
could carry out his intention. Now that 
his mind was made up, he became very 
impatient, and walked the room to pass 
away the time, frequently going to the 


AND THE WANDERER. 107 

window to see how much lower in the 
west the sun lay. 

Later the key was turned, and the far- 
mer’s wife passed in the bread and water 
and then disappeared. Edmund drank some 
of the water, but too excited to eat, he 
took the precaution to put the bread in 
his pocket. 

At last the sun went out of sight be- 
hind the forest-trees, and twilight gradu- 
ally deepened into evening. Edmund heard 
the farmer locking the doors and windows, 
and soon silence fell upon the household. 
Hardly daring to breathe, lest he should 
break the stillness, Edmund sat motionless 
by the window, waiting for the farmer 
and his wife to fall asleep. 

When he was sure the right moment 
had arrived, Edmund rose softly, took the 
sheets from his bed, tied an end of each 
securely together in a square knot, and 
making one end fast to a beam that ran 


108 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

lip by the side of the window, threw the 
other end outside. As he was about to 
descend, he remembered his purse and 
went to his trunk to find it. What was 
his surprise when no purse was to be 
found ! He had not had occasion to use 
it since he came to the farm, and had 
hardly thought of it. Thinking he must 
have overlooked it, he carefully took out 
one article of clothing after another until 
the little trunk was empty, but still no 
purse. 

Completely staggered by this obstacle, 
the boy sat down on the floor in conster- 
nation. Not that he thought of abandon- 
ing his project, but the loss of his purse 
was a serious drawback. He concluded at 
once that the farmer must have taken it, 
in order to prevent him from purchasing 
more drawing-materials. 

I will walk every step of the way,’’ 
said the determined boy to himself. It 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


109 


will take me longer, but I will find my 
way home if it takes me a year/' 

Having formed this resolution, he rose 
to his feet and walked to the window. 

Sliding down on the sheets was an easy 
task for a vigorous boy, and he drew a 
deep breath of relief when he found him- 
self standing on the ground. 

After he had taken a few steps towards 
the gate, he remembered his paint-box. 

I can’t go without that,” he said to him- 
self It is mine ; the farmer has no right 
to it.” 

He knew just where it was, in the little 
cupboard behind the kitchen stove ; but 
how to obtain possession of it, with the 
doors and windows of the house locked, 
was a serious question. He tried the kitchen 
windows, hoping one of them might have 
been carelessly left unfastened, but they 
were tightly closed. 

This second obstacle was not of so seri- 


110 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

ous a nature as the first, but he was not 
willing to give up his beloved paint-box 
without another effort. He remembered a 
little window in the shed ; and if that were 
unfastened he could climb through it and 
reach the kitchen in that way, for he knew 
the door to the kitchen had no lock. 

He tried the little window, and to his 
intense relief, found he could raise it. 
Going to the wood-pile, he selected a stick 
of the right length, and raising the win- 
dow carefully, inserted the stick to keep 
it in place. 

The opening thus made was not large, 
but with care and some squeezing he 
forced himself through, and jumped lightly 
to the floor; but careful as his entrance 
was, he had not noticed a large wash-tub 
that was placed on its side directly under 
the window ; and with a clatter that rever- 
berated through the stillness, it rolled across 
the shed-floor. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


Ill 


The boy stood still, uncertain whether 
to stay or fly; but after a moment of un- 
certainty he found that the farmer had 
not taken alarm, and he cautiously raised 
the latch of the kitchen door. 


/ 


112 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HE door of the farmer’s bedroom that 



^ led out of the kitchen stood wide 
open, and Edmund hesitated, as he stood 
in the silent kitchen, with the moonlight 
streaming across the floor. How like a 
thief s seemed his stealthy footsteps, as 
he approached the cupboard behind the 
stove ! 

^‘1 am only taking what is my right,” 
he said to himself. 

A deep-drawn breath from the next room 
startled him as his hand was on the knob of 
the cupboard, and he stopped. All was 
quiet again, and he opened the little door. 

Yes, there was his paint-box, and beside it 
his block of drawing-paper. Seizing both 
eagerly, he closed the door and cautiously 
retreated the way he had entered. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


113 


Once safely outside, Edmund started on a 
run, and taking the road that lay to the vil- 
lage, kept rapidly on, sometimes stopping to 
walk, but most of the time running. Every 
few moments he looked back over his 
shoulder, half expecting to see the farmer in 
pursuit ; but he at last reached the village 
in safety. 

So early had the farmer and his wife gone 
to bed, that it was not more than ten o'clock 
when Edmund entered the village; but even 
at that hour nearly every house was dark, 
for country-people keep early hours. 

In what direction the depot lay, was un- 
known to Edmund. To inquire his way 
seemed to him a dangerous thing, for his 
appearance alone at that hour would be 
sure to excite suspicion. It was the only 
course, however, for him to pursue ; and 
seeing a light in the rear of a small house, 
he walked boldly up to the back door and 
knocked. 


8 


114 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

While his hand was still on the door it 
was opened, and a man with a hat on came 
out, who had evidently just taken his leave. 
Edmund saw at once that he was a sailor, as 
also was another man who had accompanied 
him to the door. 

^^Well, sonny, what do you want?” 
asked the man who stood in the doorway, 
while the other waited, curious to see what 
the boy could want at that late hour. 

Will you please tell me the way to the 
railroad station ? ” asked Edmund. 

Eailroad station at this hour ? ” ex- 
claimed the man. Why, what in the world 
do you want to know that for ? ” 

I want to go there,” replied Edmund, 
beginning to fear that this questioning might 
lead to trouble. 

1 ’m blessed if ’t ain’t the boy that made 
the picturs,” exclaimed the man who stood 
outside the door. 

You *re right, Cap’n,” replied the other. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


115 


What ’s the row, sonny ? Ain’t the old 
man used you well ? ” 

No,” replied Edmund, feeling that the 
best thing he could do was to confide in 
these men, who seemed friendly to him; 

he has treated me very unfairly, and I 
have made up my mind to go back to my 
uncle and tell him about it.” 

Going on the train ? ” 

No,” replied Edmund, resolutely ; I 
must walk. The farmer took away my 
money.” 

‘‘ You don’t say so ! How do you ex- 
pect to git victuals ? ” 

I can work my way along,” replied 
Edmund. I am willing to work in pay 
for food, and I can sleep out-of-doors.” 

Cap’n,” said the other in a low tone, 
as he stepped up to the man who stood 
outside, here ’s the boy you ’ve been 
looking for ; he ’ll do.” 

Yes, he ’ll do, Sam,” replied the other. 


116 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Sonny,’’ he asked, turning to Edmund, 
how would you like to ship ’long of me ? 
We ’ll get you to your uncle safe and 
sound.” 

I will go,” replied the boy, unhesitat- 
ingly, if you will promise to take me 
to my uncle’s.” 

All right, sonny. The voyage is a 
short one, and when we ’re back I ’ll take 
you home.” 

“ Stop a moment ! ” called out the white 
Birch to the Brook, as he dashed rapidly 
along. Tell me what you are hurrying 
so for.” 

I can’t stop,” replied the Brook ; I 
have important news for the Ocean, and 
there is not a moment to lose ; ” and the 
Brook sped on, sending spray high into 
the air as he leaped over the rocks that 
lay in his path. 

Strange ! ” said the white Birch. He 


t 


AND THE WANDEEER. 117 

is angry at something, I know, I don’t 
see why he can’t tell me.” 

By and by, when I am not in such a 
hurry,” called back the Brook. 

Do you know anything about it ? ” 
asked the white Birch of the old Oak. 

The old Oak could not give her any in- 
formation, neither could the Fir-tree ; but 
both of them were of opinion that some- 
thing unusual must have happened. 

“ He is a provoking creature, that Brook,” 
said the white Birch ; he likes to keep us 
in suspense.” 

At that moment a sharp breeze whistled 
through the forest, and bowed the tops of 
the largest trees. 

I know what that means,” groaned the 
old Oak ; my old limbs recognize the first 
blast of the East-wind.” 

He is in a bad humor,” replied the 
white Birch ; but one thing is certain, — 
he can’t keep his secret to himself long. 


118 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

We shall soon know what it is that annoys 
him/’ 

On came the East-wind, with puffs of 
air that seemed fresh from the ocean. 

What is the matter ? ” called out the 
white Birch. What is it that troubles 
you and the Brook ? ” 

I don’t know anything about the 
Brook,” answered the East-wind, irritably; 

have enough to do without troubling 
myself about him. I have a piece of 
news that will astonish you, if I am not 
mistaken.” 

What is it ? ” cried the white Birch 
quickly, while the old Oak and the Fir-tree 
listened attentively. 

What should you say if I were to tell 
you that Edmund is by this time well out 
to sea ? ” said the East- wind. 

What ! ” exclaimed his three listeners 
together. 

Out at sea on board a fishing-schooner 


AND THE WANDERER. 


119 


bound for the Banks/’ said the East-wind, 
watching with satisfaction the effect of his 
words. 

Do tell us all about it,” exclaimed the 
white Birch, impatiently ; you seem to 
take delight in keeping us in suspense. 
Tell us how it came about.” 

You know already, for I have told 
you,” said the East-wind, that Edmund 
resolved to leave the farmer after he 
treated him so meanly.” 

Yes, and we have n’t heard a word 
since. You told us he was coming home, 
and we were all so glad to have him back.” 

Edmund started,” said the East-wind, 
to walk home. Poor fellow ! the farmer 
had taken away his money, and there was 
nothing else. for him to do. He stopped to 
inquire his way at a house in the village, 
where he fell in with the captain and mate 
of a fishing-schooner. They were prepar- 
ing for a cruise to the Banks, and were 


120 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

on the lookout for a boy to go along ; 
and as Edmund turned up just in time, 
they took him.” 

“ What will be required of him ? ” asked 
the old Oak. 

To do odd jobs,’^ replied the East- 
wind, and make himself generally use- 
ful. When they reach the fishing-grounds, 
they will keep him busy baiting hooks and 
waiting on the fishermen.” 

What possessed him to go on such a 
voyage ” asked the white Birch. 

The men promised to take him to his 
uncle on their return.” 

It is a pity the poor boy should be in 
the hands of such men,” remarked the old 
Oak. 

They are not bad men,” . replied the 
East-wind. “They knew if they didn’t 
take him the farmer would be sure to find 
him, and they will treat him well and 
bring him home as they promised.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


121 


am sorry for it/’ said the old Oak, 
sadly ; I would much rather he were here.’’ 

So the West-wind thinks/’ replied the 
East-wind, but I don’t agree with him. 
I sent some vigorous puffs after the ves- 
sel, and she was well out at sea before 
the farmer knew the boy was gone. I 
shall watch over him, never fear ! The 
West-wind tried to stop me, and made an 
effort to keep the vessel from starting, 
but I am the stronger and got the better 
of him.” 

^^The Brook probably knows all about 
this, and kept it to himself,” said the white 
Birch. 

Of course he does,” replied the East- 
wind ; the Ocean tells him everything.” 

He evidently had , something to tell 
the Ocean,” said the old Oak; ^4ie was in 
such a hurry to reach him.” 

“ He said he would tell us later,” re- 
marked the white Birch. 


122 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

can tell you all about it,^’ said a voice 
from far above them. 

Who and where are you ? ” called out 
the white Birch. 

You can’t see me by daylight,” an- 
swered the voice ; I am one of the stars. 
I dare not speak loudly, for fear the 
Clouds will hear me, but I know what 
made the Brook in such a hurry.” 

Why did n’t you say so before ? ” said 
the East-wind, sharply. 

I could n’t,” replied the Star, for the 
black Clouds were so near they would 
have heard me.” 

“ Well, tell it now then,” said the East- 
wind, crossly ; and be quick about it too, 
for I have business elsewhere.” 

The Brook overheard the black Clouds 
talking together about Edmund,” replied 
the star, and he thought the Ocean ought 
to know it ; so that was the reason he was 
in such a hurry to reach him.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


123 


’ What good will that do us, pray ? ” 
asked the East-wind. We knew before 
that the Brook had something to tell the 
Ocean.’ ^ 

I know what it is/’ answered the Star, 
for I heard it all.” 

‘^That alters the case,” said the East- 
wind, in a more amiable tone. What 
is it?” 

The Clouds were talking about Ed- 
mund, and said they were glad he would 
have to go to sea. They don’t like him 
because, when he painted them, he always 
made them look so black and ill-natured.” 

That is the way they always look,” 
said the white Birch ; they are gloomy 
old things.” 

I know it,” replied the Star ; but they 
don’t like to see themselves painted as 
they really are. They would prefer to be 
made brighter and more amiable-looking. 
So, as I said before, they are displeased 


124 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

with Edmund, and have never forgiven 

himr 

did him a good service when he 
was about to leave here,” remarked the 
old Oak. They allowed him to remain 
with us one day longer.” 

No thanks to them for that,” said the 
East-wind. I drove them over here, and 
when they found they could n’t help them- 
selves, they were very angry and upbraided 
me for it. That was just what I wanted ; for 
the more they scolded, the worse the storm.” 

^^But what did they say about Edmund ?” 
asked the old Oak. It must have been of 
importance to have caused the Brook such 
uneasiness.” 

They said,” replied the Star, that they 
should be on the lookout to take advan- 
tage of any chance that might occur to 
annoy or injure him. That is what the 
Brook had to tell the Ocean, that he might 
be on his guard.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


125 


The Ocean can’t prevent them/’ said 
the East- wind ; he can’t stop them, if they 
choose to send a fog or a storm. I am the 
only one who can do that, unless it is the 
North-wind ; but he is an odd fellow, and 
may take it into his head not to be on 
our side. There is no reliance to be placed 
on him.” 

A sudden blast of cold air came rushing 
through the forest, and the old Oak shook 
in every limb. As for the white Birch, 
her branches were tossed about until she 
became quite giddy. 

Not to be relied on ? So, then, that 
is your opinion of me, is it ? ” growled the 
North-wind, as he came blustering up. 

While you have been gossiping here, I 
have had my hands full. If it had not 
been for me, the ^ Nixie ’ with all on 
board would have been at the bottom of 
the ocean by this time.” 

How is that ? ” asked the East-wind, in 


126 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

a manner that implied, I don’t believe 
half of what you say/* 

While you have been idling here,** said 
the North-wind, with a severe glance at the 
East-wind, the black Clouds have been 
busy. As I just now told you, if I had not 
been on the lookout for them, they would 
have carried out their malicious designs/* 


AND THE WANDEKEK. 


127 


CHAPTER IX. 



HE East-wind was eager to know what 


the North-wind had been doing, but 
did not like to show sufficient interest in 
his movements to inquire. The white 
Birch, however, had no such scruples, and 
impatiently demanded an explanation of 
the North-wind’s words. 

I knew the black Clouds meant mis- 
chief,” began the North-wind ; so I de- 
cided to keep an eye on them. I watched 
the ‘ Nixie ’ as she lay at anchor at the 
mouth of the river. She was provisioned 
and waiting for high tide, and I saw the 
crew go aboard in boats. Edmund went in 
the last boat, looking happy and contented, 
now that he was out of the farmer s reach. 
I was pleased to find that the boy made him- 
self useful, and was quick to see what was 


128 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

wanted of him. The captain and mate too 
kept an eye on him, and were well pleased. 

I followed the vessel, as I said, and all 
went well till they had almost cleared the 
harbor, when the black Clouds that until 
now had kept at a distance, separated and 
spread over the sky. I suspected mis- 
chief ; and as I was wondering what they 
were plotting, down came a fog that shut 
out all objects, and the vessel was nowhere 
to be seen. I can assure you I felt anxious, 
for there was the second sand-bar to cross, 
and the South-wind bearing the schooner 
right down upon it. You know what an 
easy-going fellow the South-wind is, — there 
he kept on blowing as placidly as if nothing 
were the matter. I called out to him, but 
either he did n't hear me or was too indolent 
to stop, for on swept the vessel. I could n’t 
see her, but I heard the captain shouting his 
orders, and the sails go rattling down, and 
the anchor thrown out. But in spite of that, 


AND THE WANDERER. 


129 


nearer and nearer to the sand-bar went the 
little schooner, till I could hear the sound of 
the surf as it broke on the bar. 

^^At that, I knew there was not a mo- 
ment to lose, and I blew such a blast as I 
never blew before, right into the fog. It 
lifted somewhat, just enough to see the 
long stretch of sand, with the waves curl- 
ing and foaming against it, and the white 
gulls sitting on it and watching the little 
schooner dragging her anchor towards it. 
Then the fog collected once more and shut 
out the sight, and I heard the West- wind 
coming up. It did n’t take long to make 
him understand the situation, and both to- 
gether we drove the fog before us till not 
a scrap as big as a man’s hand remained, 
and the blue sky came out. Then, quick as 
a flash, the anchor was hoisted, the sails 
went uj^ the course of the vessel altered, 
and the stanch little schooner headed for 
the open sea.” 


9 


130 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Here the North-wind paused, quite out of 
breath, for he had become greatly excited 
over his story, and there was a moment’s 
silence. It was broken by the old Oak, 
whose dry leaves rustled with emotion as 
he remarked, — 

Think of the poor boy at the mercy of 
such relentless enemies ! I wish he were 
safe on shore.” 

He is as safe there as he could be here,” 
replied the North-wind. A sight of the big 
world will enlarge his ideas and develop his 
talent. We will watch him, never fear!” 

Meanwhile the fishing-schooner was well 
on her way to the Banks. Before he had 
been many days out, Edmund discovered 
that the voyage would be a longer one 
than the men had represented, and the 
captain and mate laughed at his anxious 
inquiries. 

Most boys would jump at the chance. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


131 


to see a little of the world/’ said the mate, 
consolingly ; so don’t you fret, sonny, 
and we ’ll land you high and dry at your 
uncle’s house.” 

I should enjoy it if my uncle knew 
where I was,” replied Edmund ; but the 
farmer will tell him I ran away, and will 
not tell him how unkindly he treated me.” 

We ’ll stand by you, sonny,” answered 
the mate, kindly ; he shall know the truth 
of the story. So you jest make up your 
mind to settle down to circumstances.” 

Edmund took the mate’s advice, and his 
naturally happy temperament soon got the 
better of his misgivings, and he became a 
great favorite with all on board. His paint- 
box and block of paper were a never-failing 
source of entertainment to himself and the 
crew. He made pictures of the captain and 
mate, and of all the sailors, and one of the 
old black cook that was so satisfactory that 
the old fellow examined it in all his leisure 


132 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

moments, chuckling with delight every time 
he looked at it. 

You done hit it dis time, sonny, sho* 
enough. De ole woman she ’low dat 1 ’d 
oughter hab a pictur took las’ time I lef 
home,” was his gratified comment. 

Many an hour that otherwise would have 
worn slowly away to the seamen, to whom 
this life was a monotonous one, was pleasantly 
passed in gathering about the boy, watching 
his skilful fingers as they rapidly traced pic- 
tures of his old home. His cousins, the old 
oak, the white birch, the stiff fir-tree, the 
lively brook, — all became as old friends to 
these simple-hearted seamen, who had so 
few sources of amusement. 

Then followed sketches of their native 
village, — the country store where Edmund 
had drawn the portraits; then a portrait 
of the storekeeper, drawn from memory. 
These reminiscences of the home they had 
left endeared the young artist to these 


AND THE WANDERER. 


133 


rough men, and not one of them would have 
allowed any harm to come to the boy. 

In this manner day after day passed ; and 
at last, after a short voyage, the Nixie ’’ 
lay to off the fishing-grounds. 

The paint-box was now laid aside, and 
work began in earnest. Edmund enjoyed 
the bustle and excitement that followed, 
and was kept busy baiting hooks, piling 
away fish, and keeping the deck clean ; 
but before the Nixie ” had completed her 
cargo he became weary of the sight and 
odor of fish. He did not fail in his duty, 
however, and the sailors never imagined 
that the willing boy who responded so 
quickly to their calls was dreaming con- 
stantly of his far-away home. 

For many days they cruised about, look- 
ing out for fresh schools of fish ; and one 
day the two boats were ordered out after 
a large school of mackerel that had been 
sighted, and Edmund was in one of them. 


134 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

As fast as the lines were thrown in, the 
silvery fishes were pulled into the boats. 
So busy were they, that they did not see 
the clouds that were gathering in the west 
and gradually approaching ; nor did they 
perceive the gradual darkness that was 
stealing about them and stealthily surround- 
ing them. Not till it was too late did they 
become aware of the dense sea-fog that 
soon enveloped them, and through which 
neither vessel nor small-boat could be de- 
scried. In vain they shouted ; in what 
direction the answering halloos ’’ were, 
it was impossible to tell through the 
dense fog. 

The little dory in which Edmund was, 
was tossed helplessly about at the will of 
the angry waves, that every moment in- 
creased in violence. For an instant she 
stood still, trembling in every joint, as if 
to prepare herself for the coming shock, 
and the next was tossed violently on 



“ The little dory in which Edmund was, was tossed helplessly about 
at the will of the angry waves.” — 134. 







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AND THE WANDEKER. 


135 


the top of a tall wave and sent head- 
long into the foaming trough of the angry 
sea. 

No one knew in what direction the land 
lay ; and the men, with resolute faces, bent 
all their energies to keeping the little boat 
with her head to the waves, knowing that 
if she lay in the trough of the sea she 
would be instantly swamped. 

All this time Edmund sat still, grasping 
firmly the sides of the dory, and looking 
into the weather-beaten faces about him. 
They were all silent, but each face was 
resolute and calm. Wave after wave broke 
against the bow, and sent showers of spray 
over the silent crew ; but still the strong 
men bent to their oars, with their eyes 
fixed on the dory’s bow. 

Don’t be scared, sonny ; we ’ll come 
out of this all right,” said one of the men 
at last, meeting the boy’s gaze. 

I ’m not scared,” replied Edmund, qui- 


136 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

etly ; and indeed there was no look of fear 
on his face. 

Steady, boys, steady ! keep her head 
to the wind,” he heard the mate say, as 
the little dory, balancing herself on the 
crest of a tall wave, trembled and shook 
till it seemed as if every seam must part, 
then was hurled into the foaming gulf 
below. A terrific bump, another, and 
still another, — and Edmund found him- 
self in the water. 

Hold on to the boy ! for God's sake, 
don’t let the boy drown ! ” were the last 
words Edmund heard before darkness fell 
upon him and consciousness ceased. 

What can be the reason we hear no 
news of Edmund ? ” exclaimed the white 
Birch one morning. The East-wind is 
as cross as two sticks, and the North-wind 
is a perfect bear. Can anybody tell, pray ? 
If I were not rooted here, I could find out.’^ 


AND THE WANDEREE. 


137 


A faint voice from far above was now 
heard, but an angry gust of wind carried 
away the sound. 

It is of no use to try to talk now^' 
called up the white Birch, angrily. Wait 
until that cross-patch of an East-wind is 
out of the way, and then we can converse 
comfortably/’ 

For answer, the East- wind blew a still 
sharper blast ; but the white Birch only 
tossed her long branches and laughed 
merrily. 

Just what I like ! ” she exclaimed glee- 
fully; please do it again! I feel just 
like being shaken up this morning.” 

Glad to accommodate you, I ’m sure,” 
replied the East-wind spitefully, and blow- 
ing with all the strength of his lungs. 

The Brook babbled angrily, the Fir-tree 
shook down a shower of needles, and the 
leaves of the old Oak rustled helplessly ; 
but the white Birch only laughed louder 


138 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

than ever; and finding he could not pro- 
voke her to an answer, the East-wind left 
in high dudgeon. 

As soon as he was gone, the Brook ceased 
his angry murmuring, the Fir-tree sighed 
with relief, and the rustling of the old Oak 
ceased. A happier mood stole over all. 

The West-wiiid is coming ! ’’ cried the 
white Birch, joyfully. I am sure of it. 
Now we can hear one another speak.” 

Perhaps you can hear me now,” called 
down the same voice they had heard before. 

“ What were you trying to say when that 
hateful East- wind interrupted us ? ” asked 
the white Birch. 

I know why he was so disagreeable,” 
answered the Star, twinkling faintly. He 
knew I could tell something about him. I 
know about the quarrel he and the North- 
wind had. They were both following the 
^ Nixie,’ and each wanted his own way. 
The East-wind wanted to drive the schooner 


AND THE WANDERER. 


139 


west, and the North-wind wanted her to go 
south ; and soon they both lost their tem- 
pers, and one blew one way and the other 
another way ; and in the midst of their 
quarrel the little dory in which Edmund 
was, was thrown against a rock, and all 
were thrown out. 

The winds then realized the mischief 
they had created by their obstinacy, and 
seeing one of the sailors trying to reach 
the shore with Edmund, who was sense- 
less, they blew in that direction and wafted 
them safely ashore. From there the sailor 
and Edmund made their way to the nearest 
town. There I lost sight of the boy; but I 
know the West- wind is following him, and 
before long you will have news from him.’’ 

At about this time a letter arrived from 
the farmer, stating that Edmund had run 
away because he did n’t like to work, but 
carefully avoiding the real facts of the case. 

I thought he ’d soon tire of hard work,” 


140 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

said his uncle, after reading the letter ; 

such boys never stick to one thing. I 
always knew he’d never amount to any- 
thing.” 

I am sure he did not run away un- 
less he was badly treated,” replied his wife, 
warmly. He is industrious and faithful, 
and there must be a good reason for his 
leaving. Oh, what crn have become of 
the poor boy ? ” 

He ’s safe enough,” answered her hus- 
band. He ’ll turn up before long. He ’s 
more than money enough to pay his fare 
back. I shall send him right back again, 
though. He ’ll find my will is stronger than 
his, and I shall do what I can to make a 
man of him.” 

Several days passed, however, and Ed- 
mund did not appear ; and his uncle, at 
his wife’s earnest request, went to see the 
farmer. From him he learned that the boy 
had run away because he would not allow 


AND THE WANDERER. 


141 


him to spend his time making pictures, 
concealing the fact of his conscientious dis- 
charge of his duties. 

In the village his uncle learned that he 
had shipped on board the Nixie ; ’’ and he 
returned home with the news that the boy 
had run away to go to sea, — as such boys 
are apt to do,” his uncle added ; but he 41 
find the poetry well taken out of him when 
he gets out to sea. He won’t find much 
time to fool away in drawing then.” 

The aunt, however, still refused to accept 
this version of the story, and her tender 
heart was full of misgivings for the young 
wanderer. Later he was traced to a town 
in Canada, where he was said to have made 
likenesses for his support ; and the last time 
his family heard from him, he was seen in 
the company of some men who were sup- 
posed to be going West. There all traces 
of the lost boy ended. 


142 * THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER X. 

HILE his family were in this state 



of uncertainty and anxiety regard- 
ing his fate, Edmund himself was on board 
a Western train, speeding rapidly from his 
friends and home. The men in whose com- 
pany he was, struck by his talent for draw- 
ing, conceived the idea that this talent could 
be turned to their advantage, and took him 
West, instead of helping him find the way 
to his uncle, as they promised. 

When it was too late, the poor boy real- 
ized that he had been deceived ; but with 
neither money nor friends, he knew not 
which way to turn. 

Late one night Edmund is sitting in one 
corner of the smoking-car, and as he looks 
about him his horror of the companionship 
of these men becomes almost unbearable. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


143 


The car is dimly lighted ; groups of men 
are seated at the little tables placed be- 
tween the seats, filling the car with dense 
smoke from their pipes. At one of the 
tables sit the men in whose power he now 
is, — one of them a large, powerfully built 
man, with heavily moulded features, and 
one maimed eye that gives his repulsive 
face a most sinister look ; the other, tall, 
lank, with an expression of slyness in his 
small, deep-set eyes that makes his face 
even more repulsive than his companion's. 

Everything in the car is dingy and for- 
lorn, and as the homesick boy thinks of his 
home a longing to escape takes possession 
of him. He looks out of the car-window; 
through the dim glass he sees dense woods 
on both sides. Soon the train rushes through 
a clearing, and the moon shines brightly 
down on him, with the same old face she 
wore at home. She smiles on him, — dear 
old friend, — and seems to beckon to him. 


144 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The train rushes on ; but this faithful 
friend keeps pace with it, as if determined 
not to leave him. He is sure she is follow- 
ing him in order to help him. 

The train rushes through forests again, — 
white birches, stanch old oak-trees, stiff fir- 
trees; all these the boy recognizes as old 
and dear friends, and he longs to go among 
them and ask counsel of them. 

The stations are far apart, and he does 
not know how long it may be before they 
reach the next one. He looks at the moon, 
still following the train, and wonders if she 
will stop when the train stops. 

The longing to escape grows stronger and 
stronger. At last the whistle sounds more 
frequently, and he knows they are nearing 
a station. 

His heart beats fast. He gives another 
glance at the moon ; she still seems to 
.smile and beckon. One look at his rough 
companions, so intent on betting at their 


AND THE WANDERER. 


145 


cards that they have forgotten him, and he 
slips noiselessly into the adjoining baggage- 
car. It is piled high with baggage, and he 
conceals himself where he cannot be seen. 

The train gradually pulls up at a station. 
He glances again at the moon ; she stops as 
the train stops, and he is sure she is wait- 
ing for him. This thought encourages him, 
and he knows he has but a moment to 
choose between these old, tried friends and 
the coarse, dissolute men in the smoking- 
car. His sensitive nature shudders at the 
thought of being again in their power. 
The moon is a peaceful friend and guide, 
and he unhesitatingly decides to trust him- 
self to her guidance. 

The moment the train stops he descends 
the steps and quickly glides behind the sta- 
tion. The West-wind fans his cheek and 
caresses his hair, and seems to greet him as 
a long-lost friend. He listens to it, and 
with his old friends about him, thinks his 
10 


146 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

home cannot be far off. He lets the train 
pass on. 

As the distance between him and the 
train increases, he sees the men whom he 
so dreads rush to the rear platform of the 
last car and gesticulate wildly. He knows 
they have discovered his escape, and that 
they are incensed and disappointed at it. 
The brakeman joins them, and evidently tries 
to appease them, and apparently endeavors 
to persuade them to enter the car again. 

Trembling with excitement and appre- 
hension, Edmund watches the train disap- 
pear in the distance, the lantern on the 
rear car growing dimmer and dimmer, until 
it seems like a glow-worm, and then disap- 
pears altogether. Then, with a sigh of re- 
lief, he makes his way to the woods, over 
which the moon stands and still seems to 
beckon. 

The release from the dense atmosphere 
of the smoky car to the gentle breezes 


AND THE WANDERER. 


147 


of the West-wind, fragrant with the pure 
breath of the forest-trees, fills the home- 
sick boy with delight, and he takes in 
deep breaths of it. Then he walks rapidly 
towards the woods. 

A slender white birch, that reminds him 
of his old friend by the brook at home, 
nods and waves her long branches in wel- 
come ; a sturdy old oak rustles his leaves 
soothingly, and a fir-tree greets him with 
gentle sighs. 

The moon is overhead, still looking down ; 
and in the presence of these dear friends, 
the tired boy throws himself down on the 
ground, and happy in the thought that his 
old home is not far off, a drowsy feeling 
steals over him. 

The moon beams on him with her mild, 
motherly face ; the rustle of the forest- 
trees sounds to him like sweet music, and a 
more profound and peaceful sleep than he 
has known for many days comes to him. 


148 THE WIXDS, THE WOODS, 

So deep was the wanderer’s slumber that 
when he awoke the next morning, and his 
eyes fell on the branches of the oak-tree 
above him, his first thought was that he 
was at home, and had fallen asleep at the 
foot of his old friend. Gradually the true 
state of affairs stole over his waking senses, 
and he lay considering what step to take 
next. By degrees the consciousness of a 
presence comes to him, and turning his 
eyes to one side, he sees a young Indian 
seated on the trunk of a fallen tree a short 
distance off, and steadfastly regarding him. 

The Indian is dressed like a hunter, with 
flannel shirt and leather leggings, and a gun 
lies at his feet. 

Edmund gives a sudden start at sight of 
the Indian, and his heart beats fast. The 
Indian is the first to speak, and asks him 
what he wants there. The boy tells his 
story, the other listening attentively. When 
the narrative is ended, the Indian says, — 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


149 


Where white boy’s home ? ” 

It cannot be far from here/’ replied 
Edmund ; everything looks so familiar to 
me. Perhaps twenty or thirty miles.” 

“ White boy’s home that away/’ said the 
Indian, pointing; Injun show white boy 
way to home.” 

Edmund looked at the young Indian. 
His form was tall and supple, his face in- 
telligent and spirited. The boy’s artistic 
nature appreciated the beauty of the active 
figure and handsome face, and he was in- 
stinctively drawn to him. Without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation he rose to follow his new 
guide. 

‘‘ White boy’s home far away, — over 
mountain, through woods, round big 
swamp; Injun show him way,” said the 
Indian. 

The Indian walked easily through the 
woods, making no noise as he went, step- 
ping as lightly and securely in his mocca- 


150 THE WINDS/ THE WOODS, 

sins as if he were walking on level ground. 
Edmund followed as well as he could, stum- 
bling over roots and stones concealed by 
the thick underbrush, dried branches and 
leaves crackling under his feet. 

They continued in silence for some time. 
At last the Indian said, — 

White boy’s home far away ; must eat. 
Injun bring home buck, or old squaw will 
scold and throw sticks at him. White boy 
know how hunt, mebbe?” 

No,” replied Edmund. 

White boy step soft, — keep still, — 
Injun show him how,” said the young 
Indian. 

They proceeded again silently for a while ; 
then the Indian pointed to the ground, 
saying, — 

“ Big buck ! ” 

Edmund looked on the ground, but saw 
nothing. 

Big buck that away, — doe follow 


AND THE WANDERER. 


151 


him. No kill doe, kill buck ! ” said the 
Indian. 

The Indian pointed in the direction the 
buck had gone, but crossed his track in- 
stead of following it. Edmund, suspecting 
the Indian had deceived him, said, — 

Why do you go this way when the 
deer went that way ? 

The young Indian replied scornfully, — 
White boy not know how hunt. Injun 
hunt. Buck that away, — he double, — 
six, three mile away.” 

Edmund, still suspicious, asked : How 
do you know that ? ” 

Wind tell Injun. Wind come from 
buck. If wind go back, he tell buck.” 

The course pursued by the hunter now 
became plain to Edmund. He must keep 
to leeward of the buck, or the wind would 
carry the odor of their presence to him. 

The two kept on through bogs and over 
rocks. Edmund was scratched by briers 


152 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

and caught by branches, and he wondered 
if they would ever find the buck. 

Suddenly the Indian gave him a sign to 
keep back. He followed the direction of 
the Indian’s eyes, but saw nothing; and 
while he was endeavoring to discover what 
the Indian was gazing at so intently, he 
saw him suddenly raise his gun and fire. 

Quickly following the crack of the gun 
was a crash and rush, as if some large object 
were plunging ; then all was still, as if it 
had escaped to the woods. 

The Indian said nothing, but rapidly re- 
loaded his gun. 

Edmund trembled with excitement, not 
knowing what was about to happen. The 
Indian swiftly ran towards the place whence 
the plunging sound had come, Edmund 
following as well as he could. When they 
reached the spot, Edmund, who expected 
to find the dead deer, was astonished to 
see nothing. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


153 


You missed him/’ he said. 

The Indian moved a few paces farther 
on, and picking up a leaf that had a speck 
of frothy blood on it, said, — 

Buck hit in heart ! Him dead down 
there ! ” 

About forty paces farther on they found 
the dead buck on the ground. The sight 
of the graceful creature that but a few 
moments before was so full of life and 
strength, now lying motionless at his feet, 
filled Edmund with horror, and he felt a 
great pity for the beautiful animal. 

The Indian had no such emotions, and 
proceeded to take off the skin with his 
knife. Then he took a hatchet from his 
belt and divided the body into two por- 
tions, saying, — 

Injun take home half buck, send squaw 
for other half. Long way home ; must 
have food to eat.” 

Thereupon he quartered the buck and 


154 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

cut a piece off the saddle. Edmund helped 
him collect dried sticks, and the Indian built 
a fire and roasted the venison. They then 
sat down to eat. 

The thought of eating the flesh of the 
animal that so short a time before was 
enjoying his innocent life and liberty, was 
repugnant to Edmund, and it required 
iPiuch resolution to overcome this feeling ; 
but hunger and fatigue compelled him to 
avail himself of the only food within his 
reach, and he ate what he could not have 
brought his mind to taste under other 
circumstances. When they had finished 
their repast, Edmund expressed a desire 
for water. 

The Indian went a short distance, where 
the ground was swampy, and scraping 
away the leaves from the foot of a large 
rock, disclosed a spring. It was too far 
under the rock to be reached easily, and 
the Indian, peeling from a white birch a 


AND THE WANDERER. 


155 


piece of soft, leathery bark, skilfully folded 
it into a cup, pinning it into place with a 
twig, and scooping up some of the water, 
offered it to Edfnund. 

Edmund was greatly refreshed by the 
draught and repast, and they continued on 
their way, the Indian taking a quarter of 
the buck and giving Edmund a quarter, 
and leaving the remainder for the squaw, 
to take. 

After a long and tedious tramp, just as 
the sun was setting, the Indian stopped, 
and Edmund found that they had reached 
an Indian hunter’s camp. 

There were several rude wigwams, such 
as Indians use when on a hunting ex- 
pedition. A pole was stretched between 
two trees ; against this were other poles 
reaching to the ground and covered with 
bark, with an opening at one end. 

Several Indians, dressed like the young 
Indian, were sitting and lying about. 


156 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Women were busied about the wigwams, 
and several children played near. ' The 
oldest man of the party, who was evi- 
dently th 3 chief, approached the new- 


comers. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


157 


CHAPTER XI. 



‘HE two Indians conversed together in 


their native tongue, Edmund watch- 
ing their faces intently ; for he knew he 
was the subject of their conversation. 

The elder Indian had a hard face, and 
the boy felt instinctively that he could 
expect little sympathy from him. The 
young Indian spoke low, and Edmund 
imagined, from the softer tones of his 
voice, that he was pleading his cause. 

The elder man spoke with a harsh, gut- 
tural accent, and frequently asked ques- 
tions, occasionally glancing at Edmund 
with his glittering black eyes. 

While this, dialogue was going on be- 
tween the two Indians, several squaws 
with untidy-looking calico dresses and dis- 
ordered hair came out of their wigwams 


158 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

and stared curiously at the stranger, tally- 
ing fast in their native tongue all the 
while. The children too joined the group, 
and peered at him as curiously as their 
elders. Some even went so far as to feel 
of his clothes and touch his hair. 

All this the boy bore patiently, although 
his heart was full of anxiety as he met 
the hard eye of the chief. He had read 
many stories of Indians, and knew they 
were capable of great cruelties to the 
whites ; but he knew that Indians living 
so near white habitations must have be- 
come more civilized. 

After what seemed a very long time 
to the anxious boy, the chief addressed 
him, — 

“ Why white boy run away from white 
men ? ” 

With that cold black eye on him, and 
that harsh voice so devoid of sympathy 
questioning him, Edmund felt his hope 


AKD THE WANDERER. 


159 


growing fainter and fainter ; but his truth- 
ful nature always asserted itself, and he 
answered fearlessly, — 

Because they deceived me, They 
promised to take me home, and I found 
they were bad men.” 

How white boy know um bad ? ” asked 
the chief. They take him home, mebbe ; 
that not bad.” 

They did not mean to take me home,” 
replied Edmund ; they went farther and 
farther away from my home, so I left them.” 

How white boy know um bad ? ” re- 
peated the Indian. 

Edmund hesitated a moment. With that 
cold eye on him, he could not explain that 
something within him told him they were 
bad and caused him to shrink from them ; 
but the eye was still on him, and he must 
answer. They used bad language and 
quarrelled together,” he said at last, and 
they gambled at cards.” 


160 THE WINDS; THE WOODS, 

The Indian curled his lip contemptuously, 
and said something in the Indian language, 
at which the squaws laughed and the chil- 
dren jeered. 

Edmund felt his case growing desperate. 
He looked at the young Indian who had 
conducted him hither, hoping that he would 
take his part; but the youth persistently 
avoided his eye, and it was impossible for 
Edmund to judge of the state of his feelings 
from his immovable face. Unable to bear 
this suspense any longer, he resolved to 
appeal to the generosity of the chief. 

Do show me the way to my home,’’ 
he pleaded. It cannot be very far from 
here, and I am strong and can bear fatigue. 
If you only knew how long it is since I 
have seen my friends, and how I long to 
get there, I am sure you would help me.” 

The hard face of the chief did not relent, 
even as the boy’s voice trembled in his 
eagerness. The young Indian, the while. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


161 


was leaning against a tree and gazing far 
off into the forest, with his features as im- 
movable as before ; and yet something told 
Edmund that the only ray of hope left him 
would come through him. 

Injuns stay few days longer to hunt, 
then take white boy home,” said the chief 
at last. 

Oh, do tell me the way, and I can go 
alone ! ” cried Edmund ; I know I can 
find it if you will only direct me. Indeed 
I cannot wait so long.” 

‘‘ White boy no find him way alone,” re- 
plied the chief, coldly. Big swamps, — lose 
him way ; bears in forest, — eat him up.” 

" I am not afraid,” said Edmund ; “ I know 
I can find my way.” 

Injuns leave camp in few days, — take 
white boy, show him way home,” replied 
the chief, coldly; and turning to one of 
the squaws, he gave orders in the Indian 
tongue. 


11 


162 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The squaw gave a grunt of assent, and 
said to Edmund : White boy come in wig- 
wam ; show him where him sleep.” 

Edmund dared make no resistance, but 
cast a parting glance at the young Indian, 
who still leaned against the tree, as immov- 
able as before, his dark eyes fixed on the 
forest before him ; then with a sigh he 
followed the squaw. 

The wigwam was dark, and the atmos- 
phere close and fetid. The squaw placed a 
plate of corn and beans before the white 
boy, and a piece of corn bread, but he was 
too unhappy and excited to eat of the un- 
savory food. After he had forced down a 
few mouthfuls the squaw pointed to a cor- 
ner where some fir-boughs were thrown, 
and said, — 

White boy sleep there.” 

Edmund threw himself down on the 
boughs, and lay looking out through the 
opening in the tent, at the outline of the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


163 


forest-trees, now hardly discernible in the 
dim twilight, and wondered if the Indian 
really intended to take him home. 

Before long several children came in, 
evidently clamoring in their native tongue 
for something to eat. They devoured rav- 
enously the food that seemed so unpala- 
table to him ; and when they had eaten 
what was placed before them, the squaw 
pushed them towards the corner where 
Edmund lay. They rolled around on the 
boughs, at first good-naturedly pulling hair 
and pushing one another about ; but before 
long the thumps and kicks they gave be- 
came too hard to be agreeable, and they 
bit and scratched in earnest, like young 
tigers. The squaw at this interfered with 
threats and blows dealt indiscriminately, and 
silence was at last restored. 

The children were soon asleep; but Ed- 
mund was restless and wakeful, and tossed 
about uneasily. Later, an Indian man en- 


164 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

tered the wigwam, and before long all was 
silent. 

Edmund watched the fire burning in 
front of the wigwam, and the indistinct 
line of the forest-trees, to whom he always 
turned in his homesickness. 

All at once a bright disk appeared over 
the dark outline of trees, and the glorious 
hunter’s moon slowly rose into view. She 
gradually sailed up into the clear sky, and 
the old familiar face beamed down on the 
lonely boy through the open door of the 
wigwam. 

I have found you, dear boy,” she 
seemed to say ; you see I have not de- 
serted you.” 

As he gazed at her, with the same famil- 
iar features she wore when she looked into 
his little window at home, the comforting 
thought came to him that at that very 
moment she was looking down on his old 
home, — in at the windows of his sleeping 


AND THE WANDERER. 


165 


cousins, and shining on the glistening leaves 
of the white birch, and the noisy brook, 
and the old oak, and the stiff fir-tree. 

Don’t despair,” the gentle face seemed 
to say. shall never leave you. Wherever 
you are, I shall follow, and will help you. 
Only have patience.” 

With the familiar face smiling down 
on him, the close air of the wigwam and 
the revolting companionship of its inmates 
gradually became vague and more vague, 
and at last disappeared altogether, and the 
boy slept, — to see in his dreams his old 
home, and hear the voices of his cousins 
as they played by the rippling brook and 
climbed over the sturdy branches of the 
old oak. 

In his dream Kate, playfully stooping to 
dip her hand in the brook, dashed a few 
drops of the cold water against his face, and 
he awoke to the reality of a cool Septem- 
' ber morning and an Indian camp life. 


166 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The men of the camp were engaged in 
putting their guns in order. This filled 
Edmund with hope, for he interpreted it as 
a sign they were to leave the camp. The 
young Indian who had been his guide was 
seated on the ground in front of his wig- 
wam, cleaning his gun. 

As Edmund approached, he neither looked 
up nor made the slightest motion to show 
that he was aware of his presence. 

Are you going to start to-day ? ” asked 
Edmund, eagerly. 

Injuns go hunt,” replied the other, 
without looking up from his work. 

Will you take me with you ? ” asked 
Edmund. 

Chief John tell white boy what him 
do,” replied the young Indian, indiffer- 
ently. 

At this moment the chief came out of 
the tent before which they were, and Ed- 
mund appealed to him. 


AND THE WANDERER. 167 

Will you take me with you ? ’’ he asked, 
anxiously watching his face. 

Injuns go long way when hunt,” replied 
Chief John, with his face as immovable as 
ever, — over mountain, round swamp. 
White boy no go so far, — get hungry, get 
tired, cry like pappoose.” 

Oh, no ! I am stronger than you think,” 
said Edmund. I will help you. I will 
not complain if I am tired. I can help 
carry your game. Did n’t I help you bring 
home the buck ? ” he asked the young 
Indian. 

Too far for white boy, — him too young, 
— hunt when him big,” replied the youth, 
his eyes still fixed on the gun he was 
cleaning. 

White boy stay in camp, — help squaw 
in wigwam, look after pappoose,” said 
Chief John ; and with the hard eye on 
him Edmund dared not press the matter 
further. 


168 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

He sorrowfully watched the hunting-party 
depart; and as they left the camp, the 
young Indian, w^ho w^ent last, turned be- 
fore he disappeared down the rocky de- 
clivity that led from the camp, and for 
the first time since Edmund had entered 
the camp, looked at him. Hasty as the 
glance was, the forlorn boy read in it sym- 
pathy for him, and his heart throbbed 
wildly with hope. 

The day wore tediously away; but Ed- 
mund bore his trials patiently, remember- 
ing the glance from the young Indian’s 
dark eyes. It seemed to the unhappy boy 
as if the squaw employed all her ingenu- 
ity in inventing work to keep him busy ; 
frequently sending him to the spring for 
water, then ordering him to collect dried 
wood for the fire at which she cooked, 
and to fill up the remainder of the time in 
looking after the children. 

This last occupation was the hardest of 


AND THE WANDERER. 


169 


all, for the children were untidy and ill- 
natured, and whenever he . attempted to 
restrain them, they vented their displeas- 
ure in loud screams and yells, which never 
failed to bring down on his head a torrent 
of abuse from the squaw. 

The older boys questioned him in regard 
to his past life ; and Edmund, glad of any 
human companionship, told anecdotes of 
his experiences. They were greatly in- 
terested in his account of his fishing-voy- 
age, and asked many questions about the 
great saltwater,’' as they called the ocean, 
which they had never seen. 

These tales evidently inspired them with 
more respect for the white boy ; and they, 
in turn, told him stories of their life. 

He learned from them that their tribe 
was situated several days’ journey away, 
and that this camp was a detachment that 
would join the tribe when the hunting-sea- 
son was over. Then white boy see big 


170 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

camp,” exclaimed one of the boys, proudly, 
— heap big camp.” 

I shall not go with you,” replied Ed- 
mund ; the chief has promised to take 
me home in a few days” 

Chief John tell white boy heap lie,” 
said the Indian boy ; “ him take white boy 
to tribe, teach him hunt.” 

How do you know it ? ” asked Edmund, 
quickly. 

Injun boy speak with Injun tongue. 
Chief John Injun tongue ; him say no take 
white boy home, — take him big camp, 
teach him hunt.” 

Another of the boys, older than the one 
who had spoken, here said something in 
the Indian language. Judging from the 
gestures, Edmund conjectured he was up- 
braiding the younger one for giving the 
information. 

A violent discussion ensued, which ended 
in a hand-to-hand tussle ; and dispirited 


AND THE WANDERER. 


171 


and disgusted, Edmund was glad to hear 
the squaw calling to him to bring more 
wood. 

The hunting-party returned in the even- 
ing bearing plenty of game, and Edmund 
was kept busy by the squaw while she 
prepared the evening meal for the hunters. 
The half-cooked meat the Indians devoured 
so greedily, was repulsive to the white 
boy, and he found it difficult to force any 
of it down. 

Edmund watched eagerly the young In- 
dian’s face, hoping to catch another look 
from him ; but it was impossible to meet 
his eye, and his manner was so indifferent 
and cold that he wondered if he could 
have been mistaken. 


172 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTEE XII. 

"PDMUND’S life in the Indian hunters' 
camp went on in the same monoto- 
nous manner. Every day he brought wood 
and water for the squaw, and took care of 
the children. Several of the squaws were 
occupied in making baskets that they sold 
at the distant white settlements ; and find- 
ing that the white boy quickly learned to 
weave the supple ash-twigs, they frequently 
set him to work on them. 

At first this novel occupation was a 
recreation for him, but it soon became 
tedious and monotonous. 

A week passed in this manner, and Chief 
John made no move to take him home as 
he had promised. Edmund feared the In- 
dian boy had told the truth when he said 


AND THE WANDERER. 


173 


the chiefs intention was to keep him with 
the tribe. Many times the request to be 
taken home was on his lips ; but the chiefs 
manner was so forbidding that his cour- 
age forsook him, and he resolved to wait 
patiently awhile longer. 

One evening Chief John sat in front of 
his wigwam, conversing with his son, whom 
Edmund had discovered the young Indian 
who brought him to the camp to be. The 
hunt had been unusually successful that 
day, and the chief seemed to be in a more 
affable mood than usual. 

Edmund stood at a distance, and watched 
them seated before the fire that was kept 
burning in front of the wigwam during the 
cool September evenings. Stern and cold 
as the chiefs manner ordinarily was, deep 
in his Indian heart must have lurked a 
spark of parental affection, for the tones 
that were usually so harsh grew almost soft 
as he talked with his son ; and feeling in- 


174 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

stinctively that it would be well to take 
advantage of this softened mood, the boy 
took courage and ventured to approach. 

Neither of the Indians looked up as he 
appeared ; but conversation ceased, and he 
knew they were aware of his presence. 

Can’t you take me home now ? ” asked 
Edmund, in rather faint tones ; for the glit- 
tering eyes of the chief were turned towards 
him as he spoke, and he began to feel he 
had taken a very audacious step. ‘^It is 
more than a week since I came here, and 
you promised to take me home in a few 
days.” 

Injuns hunt more, — plenty buck in 
woods. Bimeby big frosts come ; then In- 
juns go back to tribe, — take white boy 
too,” answered Chief John. 

I can’t wait so long ! ” cried Edmund, 
in despair. They will think at home that 
I am dead, it is so long since they have 
heard from me. I can go alone.” 


AND THE WANDEKEK. 


175 


White boy no go alone, — Injuns take 
him home bimeby/' said the chief, coldly. 

Edmund cast an imploring glance at the 
young Indian. He sat leaning against the 
wigwam with his eyes fixed on the fire, 
and his features showed no emotion of any 
kind. 

Do try to persuade your father to let 
me go,’’ pleaded the desperate boy, still 
instinctively feeling that the young Indian 
was the only one of that unsympathetic 
tribe who had any touch of feeling for him. 

Tell him how lonely it is for me to be so 
long away from my family. He is fond of 
you, — I heard how soft his voice grew when 
he talked to you. Tell him how badly you 
would feel if you were separated from him. 
He must surely listen to you.” 

The young Indian evinced no emotion of 
any kind as Edmund spoke, although the 
boy’s voice was tremulous and broken from 
the effort he made to control himself, and 


176 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

his eyes were moist with the tears he man- 
fully kept back. 

Better white boy stay with Injuns. In- 
juns take him to big camp where tribe is, — 
make him big chief, mebbe, when big.’’ 

At this blow to his hopes Edmund made 
no reply, but a hard look settled down on 
his face as he turned from the Indians to go 
to the wigwam where he slept. Now that 
he knew for a certainty that Chief John 
had deceived him and intended to keep 
him in his tribe and make an Indian of 
him, and that the young Indian whom he 
imagined to be friendly to him had no 
more sympathy for him than the others 
of his tribe, he resolved to take matters 
into his own hands, and embrace the first 
opportunity to escape that offered itself 

Yet, as he had turned to go, he had 
caught a quick glance from the young In- 
dian’s eyes, whose lips he thought formed 
the word ‘^Wait.” Could he have under- 


AND THE WANDERER. 177 

stood the sudden resolve to escape that 
entered the boy’s mind ? 

Closer and more revolting than ever 
seemed the wigwam as Edmund entered 
it and threw himself down on his bed 
of boughs. The children were asleep, and 
he lay there revolving in his mind the 
chances for escape. It must be effected 
when the Indians were away hunting, 
when he was sent to bring water from 
the spring or dried wood for the fire ; and 
he resolved to take advantage of the first 
opportunity that presented itself. Was he 
right in thinking the young Indian meant 
to tell him to wait, or had he been mis- 
taken, as he was before? It was impos- 
sible to tell. 

The squaw was in her corner asleep ; and 
later the Indian came in, bringing with him 
the fumes of whiskey and tobacco, and soon 
his heavy breathing announced his deep 
slumber. 


12 


178 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The hunter s moon was waning. It 
seemed to the restless and excited boy 
tossing about sleeplessly on his fir-boughs 
that she would never appear. The West- 
wind was there, — he had not deserted 
him. He looked in at the open door of 
the wigwam, and wafted in fresh breezes 
to cool the boy’s heated brow. At last up 
rose the Moon, with part of her glory gone, 
and the boy imagined her face wore a sad 
expression. 

Suddenly the thought seized him that 
she was soon to leave him, — that in a 
few days more he w^uld lose sight of this 
old friend who had followed him so faith- 
fully through his trials. What should he 
do without her? How could he bear his 
hard lot without her friendly face to com- 
fort him? 

The heavens were thick with fleecy 
clouds, and as they moved across the 
sky it seemed to him as if it were his old 


AND THE WANDERER. 


179 


friend who was moving, sailing rapidly 
away from him. She still looked at him, 
though, smiling sadly, as if loath to desert 
him. 

" Oh, take me with you ! ” cried the lonely 
boy; ‘‘1 cannot be left alone here. Show 
me the way home ! 

The clouds dispersed, and the Moon 
seemed to stop for an instant, remaining 
motionless in the sky, as if waiting for 
him. 

The West-wind rustled the trees that 
grew about the wigwam, and to his over- 
wrought imagination jesolved itself into a 
voice that called to him to follow. He 
looked about him. The Indian was groan- 
ing in his sleep, restless from his drunken 
orgies ; the squaw breathed heavily by 
his side. 

The West- wind wafted another breath, 
fragrant with the odor of the forest, in 
at the open door, as if inviting him to 


180 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

come out ; and the boy noiselessly arose and 
stepped outside the wigwam. 

All was still. The fires in front of the 
wigwams were dying out, and not a sound 
indicated the presence of a human being. 
The boy glanced up at the Moon ; she was 
sailing on again, , still looking down on 
him. 

I will follow you, old friend,’’ said the 
boy, softly ; better to perish in the woods 
with old friends about me than live among 
these dreadful people.” 

He stole cautiously along, fearful lest his 
footsteps should warn the sleeping Indians. 
A dry twig under his feet crackled in the 
stillness with a report that sounded to his 
overwrought nerves like a pistol-shot. He 
stopped to listen, hi§ heart beating fast. 

Not a sound came from the silent wig- 
wams ; only the loud thumping of his fast- 
beating heart was audible in the stillness, 
and he continued his stealthy walk. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


181 


As he approached the wigwam of the 
chief, that stood on the outskirts of the 
camp, the dread of seeing him appear took 
such possession of the boy that a' violent 
trembling seized him, and he stopped before 
the open door, expecting every minute to 
hear the harsh voice of the chief bidding 
him return. 

All was still there, and he went on, and 
began to descend cautiously the declivity 
that led down from the camp to the woods, 
in whose friendly shadows he hoped to es- 
cape. When half-way down, a sudden cry 
from the forest almost chilled the blood in 
his veins, and he stood as if paralyzed, his 
eyes riveted on the camp behind him, ex- 
pecting to see his pursuers appear. 

All was quiet, however ; and a large owl, 
whose cry in the excited state of his mind 
he had not recognized, flew up from the 
dense forest before him. 

The owl sailed out of sight, and on went 


182 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

the boy, — a little faster now, as the dis- 
tance between him and the camp increased, 
— the Moon floating along above him, and 
the West-wind following him with soft 
breaths. 

The foot of the hill is now reached, and 
the broad forest lies still and dark before 
him. He hesitates in which direction to go. 
He looks up at the Moon ; she still sails 
placidly on, and he follows, breathing freely 
at last, as he enters the dark woods. 

A slight rustle of leaves from behind, 
and he starts violently as a hand is laid 
lightly on his shoulder. He looks around 
in terror, and sees the young Indian. They 
look at each other in silence for a while ; 
then the Indian speaks, — 

What for white boy run away ? ” 

Because I couldn’t stand it any longer,’* 
replied poor Edmund. 

• Injun say, ' White boy, wait, — bimeby 
help him find home.’ ” 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


183 


Will you really help me if I will wait ? ” 
asked Edmund, joyfully. 

Injun say help white boy find him 
home ; Injun no lie, — keep him word,” an- 
swered the young Indian, proudly. 

^^Then I will try to be patient,” said 
Edmund, "for I believe you are my 
friend.” 

White boy too much fool, — no run 
away alone. Injuns find him in morning, 
then keep him in wigwam.” 

^^When will you take me home? How 
long must I wait?” asked Edmund. 

^^No long wait, — when moon go away. 
Then woods dark; Injun find him way when 
dark, know hide from chief, take poor white 
boy home.” 

« Why did you tell me to wait ? ” asked 
Edmund. ‘^What made you think I was 
going to run away?” 

" Saw it in white boy’s eyes,” answered 
the Indian. " Moon shine down on forest, 


184 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

— white boy love forest. Moon go through 
sky, — take white boy to him home mebbe. 
Wind blow soft, — say, ^ Come.’ ” 

That ’s just how it was ! ” exclaimed 
Edmund, happy to be understood ; ‘‘ but 
how did you know it ? ” 

Injun love forest too. Moon speak 
to him, — sorry when him .sorry, smile 
when him glad. Wind speak too, — tell 
him where go.” 

How strange,” said Edmund, gazing 
admiringly on the young Indian, whose face 
had lost its usual indifferent expression 
and looked kindly on him, that you 
should feel so much as I do ! They always 
laughed at me at home when I told 
them the wind and trees seemed to speak 
to me.” 

White boy go back in wigwam. Chief 
John wake up mebbe, find white boy gone, 
then keep him in wigwam, take him to big 
camp, — no get home.” 


AND THE WANDERERo 


185 


Edmund understood the reason for this 
advice, and obediently started to go back. 

Injun go first/’ said the young Indian. 

Chief John wake up mebbe ; find him 
gone ; find white boy gone too, — then 
Injun no help him get away. White boy 
come back soon, — no look at Injun any 
more, no speak to him. Injun say, when 
time come, what him do.” 

Edmund watched the supple form of the 
young Indian as he lightly sprang up the 
hill that led to the camp, and saw him dis- 
appear in his wigwam. Then, with his heart 
lightened of a heavy burden, he followed 
cautiously. As he passed the chiefs tent 
he glanced up, hoping to catch a glimpse 
of his young friend ; but all was dark and 
silent there, and he entered his own wig- 
wam and threw himself down on the fir- 
boughs in the corner. 

The Moon still looked down on him ; but 
it seemed to him that she wore a happier 


186 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

look, as if she approved of the decision he 
had taken. The West- wind too looked in 
upon him, and seemed to murmur approval ; 
and happy in the approbation of these old 
friends and the recollection of the young 
Indian’s promise, he fell fast asleep. 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


187 


CHAPTER XIII. 



HE next morning Edmund awoke with 


a lighter heart than he had borne for 
many days. Now that he ha4 the young 
Indian’s assurance that he would help him, 
he felt sure of seeing his old home once 
more. The old squaw was even more exact- 
ing than usual that day, and contrived to 
keep every moment employed; but in his 
happy mood, the boy cheerfully fetched 
water and wood, and even sang and whis- 
tled to himself as he went. 

This change of manner the squaw no- 
ticed, and as is the instinct of cross-grained 
people, employed all her ingenuity to bring 
about a change of mood. Finding her ef- 
forts unavailing, — that the oftener he went 
to the woods the lighter became his step, 


188 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

— she resolved to try another method. 
She little knew the great power opposed 
to her, — that Mother Nature spoke to the 
forlorn boy through the sky and winds 
and trees; that the water bubbling up in 
the clear spring had a voice for him that 
drowned her querulous tones; that the wild- 
flowers, nodding as he passed, whispered 
promises that might soon be fulfilled. 

With the intuition that characterizes such 
unamiable people, the squaw changed his 
occupation to that of nurse to the younger 
children. Even that failed to disturb the 
boy’s cheerful temper, and not once did 
she have the gratification of hearing one 
of those irritable cries from the children 
that never failed to bring down on the 
white boy’s innocent head a torrent of in- 
vectives from her nimble tongue. 

Never had Edmund tried so hard to 
please his unattractive charges as he did 
this morning. Peeling off strips of smooth 


AND THE WANDERER. 


189 


birch-bark, he fashioned them into every 
form his imagination could invent. Nests 
of boxes, baskets, little boats, and other 
toys that these neglected children had 
never heard of grew under his skilful 
hands, — the small pappooses watching him 
silently with their bead-like eyes as the 
bark took these wonderful shapes. 

Edmund himself became as interested as 
they, and suddenly a new idea struck him. 
Selecting a piece of charred wood from 
the fire, he rapidly sketched on a smooth 
piece of birch-bark the wigwam, with the 
squaw cooking before the fire. 

The older children gazed at the picture 
in astonishment, looking in bewilderment 
from the picture to the wigwam and back 
again. Next came a picture of one of the 
children, then another; each one of which 
was recognized at once. 

The squaw approached and looked over 
the young artist’s shoulder. As she recog- 


190 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

nized the different subjects, and lastly her- 
self, her surprise amounted even to terror. 

Put him in fire ! ” she screamed, point- 
ing to the innocent pictures ; burn up 
bad spirit ! ” and as she spoke she caught 
up the offending sketches and thrust them 
into the fire, where they quickly flamed 
up, and were soon reduced to ashes. 

‘‘1 didn’t intend any harm,” explained 
Edmund ; “ I only made the pictures to 
amuse the children.” 

Much harm ! ” exclaimed the squaw, 
excitedly ; big devil in white boy, — 
medicine man drive him out.” 

Poor Edmund, finding his pictures meet 
with so little appreciation everywhere, 
might well have been discouraged ; but 
this novel explanation of a devil having 
taken possession of him amused him. 

Big medicine man in camp where tribe 
is,” explained the squaw. Bimeby Injuns 
go back to tribe, white boy go too ; medi- 


AND THE WANDERER. 


191 


cine man come in, — big horns on him head, 
long tail hang down behind, — dance round • 
fire, speak loud words, scare devil out white 
boy.” 

During the remainder of the day the 
squaw kept a watchful eye over Edmund’s 
movements. Whenever he looked in her 
direction he found her small sharp eyes 
fixed on him, as if she feared the evil 
spirit that she believed to hold possession 
of him might return at any moment. 

As the day drew to a close, the hunters 
returned as usual; and after they had par- 
taken of their evening meal, Edmund was 
ordered to appear before the chief. He 
knew at once for what he was wanted, 
and obeyed with trepidation ; for he feared 
he had incurred the displeasure of the chief. 

The white boy was not surprised to find 
a group of Indians assembled about the 
chief’s tent. The chief stood in their 
midst ; and the young Indian, seated on 


192 THE WINDS, THE WOODS 

the ground, intent on shaping a hickory 
bow, did not look up as he appeared. 

The squaw, who, like the rest of her In- 
dian sex, was kept in a state of ignorance, 
had never seen pictures, and might well have 
supposed them to be the work of the Evil 
One ; but the chief often visited the white 
settlements for purposes of trade, and his 
superior knowledge of the world recog- 
nized that what had so terrified the squaw 
were likenesses that the boy had drawn ; 
and he was curious to have a specimen of 
his ability. So, as the boy stood trembling 
before him, the chief requested him to make 
a portrait of himself. 

Edmund, relieved to find he had not in- 
curred the chiefs displeasure, replied that 
he must first supply himself with a piece 
of birch-bark and charcoal; and while he 
went in search of them, the chief entered 
his wigwam to don a wardrobe suitable to 
the occasion. 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


193 


When the artist returned, he found the 
hunting-shirt and leggings that had suited 
the chief so well exchanged for an old 
military coat that he had obtained in 
some business transaction ; a tall white 
beaver hat with a large curved brim, a 
large feather standing stiffly upright from 
the centre of the hat, and his long black 
hair hanging over his shoulders ; also a 
pair of pantaloons that, like the coat, were 
made for a smaller man, and reached mid- 
way between the knee and ankle. 

The artist was staggered at this strange 
figure. The perfect self-possession and 
haughty carriage of the chief were such 
a contrast to this ludicrous costume that 
Edmund found it difficult to keep a grave 
face. However, his reputation was at stake, 
and he resolved to do his best. 

The boy’s nimble fingers moved rapidly 
over the birch-bark. The Indians gathered 
about him and watched the growing pic- 
13 


194 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

ture ; and the chief stood stiff and im- 
movable as a statue, retaining through- 
out his haughty expression. The Indian 
youth was the only one who manifested 
no interest in the scene, — sitting on the 
ground shaping his bow, with not even a 
glance towards the interested group. 

At last Edmund held up the picture, — a 
perfect fac-simile of the grotesque figure 
of the chief, who received it with a grunt 
expressive of satisfaction. 

While Chief John was examining his por- 
trait, Edmund took another piece of bark 
and began again to draw. This time his 
whole heart was in the work, and as it 
grew under his hands, the color deepened 
in his cheeks, and his eyes glowed with 
pleasure. He put in a few finishing touches, 
throwing back his head and looking at it 
fondly, as if it were a subject he loved to 
dwell upon. Then, with one more lingering 
glance, he handed it to the chief. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


195 


It was a picture of the young Indian, as 
he sat with his head bent over his work. 
The chief gave another grunt expressive 
of satisfaction. 

After that, came a picture of the whole 
camp ; then one after another of the Indians 
requested a portrait of himself. The boy 
patiently gratified their requests, delighted 
at an opportunity to please them. 

After some tedious hours of work, as 
Edmund sat making idle figures on the 
bark before him, outlines of faces he knew 
began to fill the vacant spaces. 

The captain and mate of the fishing- 
schooner, then the men who had brought 
him West under pretence of taking him 
home, and last of all the man with the 
maimed eye. There it was before him, — 
the sinister look coming out boldly under 
the strong lines of the charcoal ; and as 
Edmund finished the shaggy black mus- 
tache, an exclamation of surprise from be- 


196 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

hind startled him. It came from the chief, 
who had been looking over his shoulder. 

What him name ? ” he asked, pointing 
to the hard face. 

It ’s the man I ran away from,” replied 
Edmund. 

The chief took the picture from the 
boy, and the Indians crowded around to 
look at it. An earnest conversation in the 
Indian language followed, and it was evi- 
dent they had recognized the portrait. Al- 
though Edmund could not understand their 
conversation and the cause of their sudden 
excitement, one thing was evident, — his 
drawings had raised him in the estimation 
of the chief, for from that moment his 
manner towards him was changed, for it 
was marked by a condescension that was a 
great contrast to his former treatment of 
him. 

That some project regarding him was in 
progress, was evident during the next few 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


197 


days. He knew he was the subject of the 
conversation that went on among the In- 
dians. He looked in vain for some word 
or sign of explanation from the young In- 
dian ; but so indifferent was his manner 
that it was impossible to obtain any infor- 
mation from him. 

One day Edmund, coming up the hill 
that led to the camp with an armful of 
wood, met him on his way down, and took 
advantage of this meeting to ask him how 
soon he would take him home. The young 
Indian, without stopping, said as he passed 
on, — 

Moon say, ^ Wait till him gone away, 
then take white boy home.’ ’’ 

The words comforted the boy and helped 
him bear the suspense. 

Before long it was evident that some- 
thing was afoot, for early one morning 
Chief John and another Indian started off. 
That their errand was not to hunt was 


198 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

evident, for they took blankets and dried 
venison, and bows and arrows, and baskets 
for trading. It was also evident that they 
did not intend to return that day. Edmund 
felt sure that the move concerned him in 
some way, and his anxiety increased as the 
day wore on and he could find no explana- 
tion of the mystery. 

He knew that all of his movements were 
watched. Wherever he went, glittering 
dark eyes met his; and at last he became 
so uneasy under their gaze that he strolled 
off to the woods. 

During the last few days he had .been 
allowed to go about by himself, and no 
notice was taken of him now. His favor- 
ite spot was in an enclosure where a 
brook tumbled down a stony bed and then 
flowed in a deep stream until it was lost 
in the dense woods. 

Throwing himself at full length on the 
soft grass, he lay listening to the music 


AND THE WANDERER. 


199 


of the water as it hurried over the steep 
stones and fell foaming into the deeper 
water, where its murmur gradually ceased, 
as it blended with the stream and flowed 
calmly along. 

How often he had watched the brook 
at home ! As he listened to the familiar 
sound of the water and the voice of the 
wind murmuring through the trees, he 
almost forgot that he was not at home, 
with Kate and Fred by his side. So ab- 
sorbed was he, that the light footsteps be- 
hind him failed to arouse him from his 
revery, and it was some time later that he 
looked up to see the young Indian on the 
grass beside him, his dark eyes fixed on 
the running brook. 

Him happy now, — go along soft,” 
said the Indian, still gazing at the stream. 

Sometime him angry, — go fast, jump 
over rocks, hurry tell big river what him 
knows.” 


200 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

So I have often thought of our brook 
at home,’’ replied Edmund. I often said 
so to Kate and Ered ; but they only laughed, 
and said it was my imagination. I wish 
I knew what they were doing now ! ” and 
Edmund sighed. 

White boy no be sorry,” said the In- 
dian, cheerfully. Brook glad ; sun look 
glad ; wind glad too, — say white boy, 
^Wait.’” 

‘^\try to be patient,” replied Edmund, 
“ but it does seem so long.” 

Moon ’most gone ; soon night dark ; 
then Injun show white boy home,” said 
the young Indian, encouragingly. 

Where has the chief gone ? ” asked 
Edmund, and why does he treat me so 
much more kindly than he used to ? ” 

White boy ran away from white man. 
Chief know name of white man when 
white boy make him on bark. Chief gone 
see man/^ 


AND THE WANDERER. 


201 


Oh dear ! ’’ cried Edmund, terrified at 
the thought of coming again into the power 
of that dreaded man, does he mean to take 
me back to him ? ” 

White boy make faces come on bark, — 
great medicine man some day. White man 
give chief heap money for him,” explained 
the Indian. 

“ Don’t let him take me back ! ” cried 
poor Edmund, clutching the hand of the 
young Indian in his terror. You are the 
only true friend I have to help me. Dovit 
let him take me back ! ” 

Injun say take white boy back to him 
home, — Injun no tell lie,” replied the 
young Indian, proudly. 

Why can’t you take me now ? ” asked 
Edmund. The chief is away, and we 
shall never have a better chance.” 

Plenty chance ! ” answered the Indian, 
scornfully. White boy too fool. Injun 


202 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

know when time come ; then him say 
white boy, ^ Come/ 

Edmund in his helplessness felt that his 
only chance of escape lay through the 
Indian ; and hard as it was, he resolved 
to bide his time. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


203 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A /TE AN WHILE Edmund’s friends at home 
were in as unhappy a state of mind 
as the boy himself. His aunt still refused 
to believe the farmer’s assurances that the 
boy had been kindly treated, and had run 
away because he was too indolent to work. 
His cousins shared her confidence in their 
absent companion, and even his practical 
uncle had secret misgivings that he had 
been unjust to his nephew. Many answers 
were received to the advertisements asking 
for information of the lost boy, but none 
of them brought news of him whom they 
sought. His uncle, to gratify his wife’s 
earnest wishes and also to ease his own 
conscience, took many journeys in order to 
follow out some clew ; but they invariably 
ended in disappointment. 


204 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

The old Oak-tree and the white Birch 
and the prim Fir-tree were in a state of 
great uneasiness. The last news of Ed- 
mund that had reached them was from 
the West- wind, who had told them of his 
safe arrival at the Indian encampment ; and 
since then they had received no intelligence 
of their lost favorite. The West- wind had 
appeared once since then ; but before he 
had fairly arrived, the East-wind had come 
in a state of great excitement, and after con- 
versing together for a while the West-wind 
had disappeared. Then the North-wind 
arrived, and after a short consultation the 
East-wind and the North-wind had rushed 
off together in a state of great excitement, 
without paying any attention to anxious 
inquiries. The South-wind knew as little 
about the matter as the trees themselves, 
so they could learn nothing from him. 

The Brook too, usually so cheerful, was 
as depressed as they were, and flowed sadly 


AND THE WANDERER. 


205 


along, in too melancholy a state of mind 
to raise even a ripple. 

^^Dear me! ’’ exclaimed the white Birch, 
in an irritable tone to the Brook, whom she 
had been watching for some time. Why 
don’t you do something about it, instead 
of flowing along as if you had no more 
life than a mill-pond ? ” and she pettishly 
switched one of her long branches across 
his smooth surface, as if she would have 
liked to push him along faster. 

«Why don’t you do something about it 
yourself ? ” answered the Brook angrily, 
dashing some spray over her in return for 
the push she had given him. 

Pray, how can I do anything ? ” asked 
the white Birch, shaking off the drops. 

Well, then, how can I, any more than 
you ? And why should n’t I feel sad ? Is 
it a time to be light-hearted, with Edmund 
wandering about nobody knows where ? 
Why, at this very moment he may be 


206 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

scalped by the Indians ! If you feel in 
good spirits, I am glad of it; I don’t. I 
can’t forget old friends so easily.” 

Will it bring Edmund back to go moan- 
ing along and trying to make everybody as 
doleful as you are yourself? I feel every 
bit as wretched as you do ; but between 
you and the Fir-tree, who has been sighing 
and moaning for the last week, I believe 
I shall go crazy. Can’t you think of some- 
thing to do, instead of lamenting ? I be- 
lieve the old Oak is the only one of us who 
has any sense left. He at least tries to be 
cheerful.” 

“ What do you want me to do ? Tell 
me, and I ’ll do it,” replied the Brook. 

Don’t act as if you were centuries old, 
— an active young fellow like you ! In- 
stead of flowing idly along here, can’t you 
go to the Ocean and find out what he 
knows about the boy ? ” 

Why did n’t I think of that before, I 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


207 


should like to know?’’ exclaimed the Brook, 
roused into sudden animation. I will 
start this minute ; ” and he foamed and 
bubbled loudly in his impatience to be 
off ; for the impulsive fellow had suddenly 
become as active and hopeful as a few 
moments before he had been despondent 
and gloomy. 

The Ocean may have seen the West- 
wind since we have,” said the white Birch ; 

and if he has n’t, he may have heard 
something of Edmund from some other 
source. He has a chance of hearing more 
than we do.” 

Of course he has. Good-by ; ” and with 
a dash against a large stone around which 
he had been mildly flowing, he was over 
the barrier and rushing along at his greatest 
speed towards the ocean. 

In his headlong course he fell in with 
many smaller brooks that came to join 
him. Come on ! ” he shouted ; I am 


208 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

on my way to the ocean ; ’’ and as they 
emptied their milder streams into his foam- 
ing current, they became as wild and tur- 
bulent as he ; and with their added force 
he grew stronger and broader, and leaped 
along more madly than ever. Before long, 
as he approached the ocean and stream af- 
ter stream joined him, he seemed like a 
wide river and sent his current far over 
the meadow-banks. 

A fine Kock-maple hailed him as he 
passed, and he paused for an instant. 

What is the matter, that you are in 
such haste ? ’’ she asked. 

I can’t stop,” replied the Brook ; I 
am on my way to the Ocean, to learn 
news of Edmund ; ” and he chafed at the 
delay, and foamed harder than ever. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, dear Edmund ! ” replied the 
Kock-maple ; I know about him.” 

What do you know of Edmund ? ” 
asked the Brook, quickly. 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


209 


know him well/' replied the Kock- 
maple. ^^He always admired my form, 
and has often drawn me ; " and she moved 
one of her boughs into a more graceful 
attitude. 

“ Do you know where he is now ? " asked 
the Brook, impatiently. 

I have n’t the least idea,” answered 
the Kock-maple, trying to catch a glimpse 
of herself in the surface of the brook. 

Then why did n’t you say so before ? ” 
retorted the Brook angrily, as he threw 
himself against the bank and dashed a 
shower of water over her. 

On flew the Brook, enraged at this delay, 
and dashed headlong down a rocky preci- 
pice that stood in his way. At the bottom 
his path lay between two large rocks, form- 
ing a narrow gully through which he usu- 
ally passed quietly ; but in his present mood 
this was impossible, and with one bound 
he was through, leaving little streams of 
14 


210 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

water running down the sides of the old 
rocks. 

Softly, my young friend, softly ! ’’ called 
out the larger of the rocks ; you will gain 
nothing by such rash haste. I know you 
are on your way to the Ocean, to obtain 
news of Edmund, and perhaps I can help 
you.’’ 

The Brook tried to compose himself; but 
he bubbled and boiled at the delay. 

The East- wind and the North- wind 
passed not long ago among the trees here 
for a few moments. I overheard some of 
their conversation.” 

‘^What did they say?” demanded the 
Brook, impatiently. 

They agreed to unite their forces and 
revenge themselves on the men who took 
Edmund away, I heard them say. I did n’t 
know whom they meant, but you probably 
do.” 

May I be dammed up and turned into 


AND THE WANDERER. 


211 


a mill-pond if I know any more than yon 
do ! ” replied the Brook. 

^^They evidently knew/’ replied the old 
Bock, calmly ; and of one thing you 
may be sure, — the boy is safe. Take my 
advice and keep as cool as you can, for 
fretting and fuming will not help you 
any.” 

The Brook started off again, flowing along 
more quietly, encouraged by the old Rock’s 
words. Edmund was safe, but where ? That 
was the question, and the Brook could not 
rest until it was answered ; and in spite of 
his endeavor to take the matter coolly, be- 
fore he knew it he was rushing along as 
madly as ever. 

‘^What is the matter?” called out the 
trunk of an old Tree that lay across his 
path. 

Nothing that I know of,” replied the 
Brook, crossly* ^‘Is anything the matter 
with you ? ” 


212 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

What say ? I am a little deaf,” an- 
swered the old Tree, in a mild voice. 

Nothing ! ” roared the Brook in his 
loudest tones, as he dashed himself against 
the Tree, cleared it with a bound, and was 
out of hearing before the old Tree had time 
to recover from his astonishment. 

I declare I ought to be ashamed of my- 
self to answer the old fellow so roughly, 
when he meant no harm. I 'll make it right 
next time, though,” said the Brook to him- 
self, as he went on more quietly. 

Fresh sea-breezes were now wafted to- 
wards him, cooling his tempestuous feelings 
and bringing him into a calmer state of 
mind. The forests, too, were not so dense 
as before, and he now ran through meadows 
with hardly a tree in them, then through 
marshes with tall, coarse grass, until the 
Brook found himself in the presence of the 
Ocean. 

The Ocean was calm and serene, and 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


213 


received the noisy little Brook very 
kindly. 

I can tell you very little/’ he replied to 
the Brook’s rapid questions. can tell 
you how the ^ Nixie ’ was wrecked. The 
East- wind and the North- wind each wanted 
to drive her in a different direction. You 
know both of them are crotchety fellows, 
and each was set on having his own way ; 
and between them a violent storm arose and 
the two boats were swamped. I saw the 
mate swimming with Edmund to land. The 
mate shipped again ; but Edmund did not 
go with him. I can tell you no more ; but 
I know who can. The West- wind has been 
where he is, and the East-wind and the 
North-wind have gone in that direction.” 

I wish I could go too,” said the Brook, 
sadly ; but I can go no farther.” 

They will be back before long,” said the 
Ocean, hopefully, and will tell you all they 
know.” 


214 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

How vexed the white Birch will be ! ” 
said the Brook to himself, as he reflected on 
the uselessness of his journey. 

All this time the East-wind and the North- 
wind were rushing along together, driving 
the clouds before them, and venting their 
indignation in loud and angry murmurs. 
As they passed on, they hurled loud blasts 
among the forest-trees that caused them to 
rock their lofty heads helplessly, and bowed 
the slender stalks of the corn-fields almost to 
the ground. Then all knew that the winds 
were intent on mischief, and woods and 
fields were thankful when the angry ele- 
ments had passed over and left them in 
safety. 

On sped the winds, paying no heed to the 
questions that assailed them on all sides, 
over mountain ranges and across the great 
lakes, which they lashed into foaming 
oceans. Still driving the clouds before 
them, they kept on till they reached the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


215 


far west, and the dark clouds and violent 
gales brought terror wherever they went. 

At last they settled down over a rough 
cabin in the woods, in which a party of men 
were seated at a table, playing at cards. 
The cabin was filled with smoke from the 
pipes the men held in their mouths. 

One of the men had a maimed eye that 
gave him a lowering expression, and all pre- 
sented a coarse and untidy appearance. 

As the clouds gathered over the building, 
the darkness increased until the men could 
barely distinguish the cards they held in 
their hands. Then the wind rose higher 
and higher, and hurled itself against the 
rough structure until it rocked on its 
foundation. 

Startled at the violence of the wind, the 
players threw aside their cards and waited 
for the storm to subside. Louder and louder 
roared the wind, tossing the forest-trees 
about until they crashed against one another 


216 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

with a report like rifle-shots. Faster and 
faster came the blasts; and with a terrific 
crash, like a volley of artillery, down went 
the frail cabin, and the dark clouds poured 
their floods of water over the frightened 
inmates. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


217 


CHAPTER XV. 

lyrEANWHILE Chief John and his 
companion were making their way 
through the forest, stopping only to eat 
and drink. When night came, they made 
a fire of dried sticks, to keep off any wild 
animals that might be prowling about, and 
placing their backs to a tree and their feet 
to the fire, rolled themselves up in their 
blankets, and went to sleep. In this posi- 
tion they could be comfortable during the 
coldest night. 

Soon after sunrise the next morning, 
they started again, after having partaken 
of a hasty meal of dried venison and coarse 
corn-bread. They went along in the silent 
way common to Indians, Chief John taking 
the lead 5 and they continued in this way 


218 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

until late in the afternoon, when they be- 
gan to slacken their pace and keep their 
eyes on the ground. 

Chief John suddenly stopped and pointed 
to a bush whence a bough had been recently 
broken, for the wood was fresh, as if just 
severed. 

White man here to-day,’’ he said to his 
companion. 

Then he stooped and carefully examined 
the ground beneath the bush. A white 
man would have detected no traces of feet, 
but the chief said to his companion, — 

Two — three white man.” 

Again they proceeded, but more cautious- 
ly than ever, making no noise as they 
stepped in their moccasins, and frequently 
stopping to listen and examine the ground. 

Chief John soon stopped again, and pick- 
ing up the ashes of a pipe, said, — 

Not day old.” 

After another close inspection of the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


219 


ground, they proceed in the same cautious 
manner, often stopping to listen. Before 
long, they see before them a dilapidated 
block hut. The door is open, and the 
wooden shutters that answer for windows 
are thrown back on their hinges. Smoke 
is issuing from the stove-pipe that serves 
for a chimney. 

The Indians conceal themselves behind 
trees and listen and watch, that they may 
not come upon the white men until the 
right moment. Voices issue from the 
traders’ hut, and occasionally a laugh at 
some coarse joke. 

A large man comes to the door and 
looks out, and the Indians hastily conceal 
themselves behind the trees again. The 
man is smoking a clay-pipe, and his heavy 
face is rendered extremely repulsive by the 
loss of one eye. The Indians recognize the 
trader One-eyed Jack.” 

Another man joins the first, equally re- 


220 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

pulsive, with long untidy red hair, and 
small deeply set eyes that have a most sly 
expression. In him the Indians recognize 
Foxy Jake,” another trader. He also is 
smoking a clay-pipe. 

The two men look up at the western 
sky, where the sun is now setting, and 
after a few remarks about the weather, re- 
enter the hut. 

A few minutes later Chief John made a 
sign to his companion, and they issued from 
their places of concealment, and silently en- 
tering the hut, seated themselves on a bench 
that stood just inside the door. A man 
stood before a small iron stove at the farther 
end of the building, stirring a broth that 
sent forth a savory odor ; and the two men 
who had appeared at the door were seated 
before a rough table, opening a package 
of tobacco. 

So silent was the entrance of the In- 
dians that the white men were not aware 


AND THE WANDERER. 


221 


of their presence until they turned and saw 
them. 

The traders were too well accustomed to 
the habits of the Indians to manifest any 
surprise at their appearance, and they con- 
tinued their occupation for a while. 

After some minutes of silence the man 
called ^‘One-eyed Jack’’ asked the Indians 
what they wanted, and if they had anything 
to trade. 

The Indians silently displayed their 
wares, spreading, on the floor their bows 
and arrows and baskets. The traders 
examined them, and then One-eyed Jack 
said, — 

What ’ll you take for the lot ? ” 

Five dollar, two pounds powder, five 
boxes percussion caps,” replied Chief John. 

Oh ! get aout ! ” retorted the trader ; 
why, the lot ain’t worth fifty cents. I ’ll 
tell you what I ’ll do, — I ’ll give you a 
bottle of whiskey for the lot.” 


222 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Chief John quietly enumerated again the 
articles he was willing to take. 

I ’ll throw in a pound of powder and call 
it a trade,” said the trader. 

Injun no want whiskey,” replied the 
chief, decidedly. Whiskey bad for white 
man, — bad for Injun too. Injun no hunt, 
no make bows and arrows, no good for any- 
t’ing when him drink whiskey ; ” and he 
prepared to collect his wares. 

“ What ’s your hurry ? ” asked the trader ; 
you’d better think the offer over.” 

^^No t’ink him over,” answered the In- 
dian; ^^heap trading-stations, — Injun no 
take whiskey.” 

Look a’ here. Chief ! ” said the trader, 
have n’t you got something else to throw 
in ? Why, this lot ain’t worth sneezin’ at ! ” 
Chief John hesitated a moment ; then pro- 
duced a roll of birch-bark and showed them 
Edmund’s pictures. 

The two traders exchanged rapid glances 


AND THE WANDERER. 


223 


the moment their eyes fell on the pictures, 
and they were convinced that the Indians 
had possession of the boy they had lost. 
Their knowledge of the Indian character 
satisfied them that they could expect no in- 
formation concerning him, and they hoped 
by a series of cross-questions to obtain some 
clew to his whereabouts. 

Been lately to the white settlements ? ” 
asked the one-eyed man. 

Chief John, ignoring the question, said, — 
How much you give for pictures ? Heap 
more in camp.” 

The white men were so eager to obtain 
possession of the boy that they offered a 
good price for the pictures in powder and 
tobacco. The Indians refused this offer, 
and after some haggling back and forth, de- 
cided to accept some powder, a bag of flour, 
tobacco, and an axe. 

^^Been huntin’ much this season?” asked 
the one-eyed man, carelessly. 


224 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Injuns no find game this fall,” answered 
Chief John. 

Find many deer down about the big 
river ? ” 

Injun no go to big river, — buck lean 
down by big river.” 

Then I s’pose you camped on the other 
side of the mountain ? ” 

Injuns no camp yet, — Injuns hunt ; 
tribe scattered round, — try find game,” 
answered the chief. 

What do you ask for beaver-skins this 
year ? ” asked the white man, changing the 
subject. 

Beaver know heap, — know Injun want 
him skin, — no want give him skin.” 

Have n’t you been down to the beaver- 
dam this season ? ” asked the trader. 

Injun no go to dam this year ; beaver 
scarce, — have young. Injun go next year. 
Got few beaver skins, — want pound powder 
for beaver-skin.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


225 


The trader waited awhile, hoping to take 
the Indian unawares on another subject. 
Thinking he might find out where the 
camp was by estimating the distance, he 
asked, — 

When did you start for this camp ? ” 

The Indian hesitated an instant, and eva- 
sively replied, pointing directly overhead, — 
^^Sun about there when Injuns started. 
Injuns tired hunting, — no find game, — no 
start early, — squaws nothing to eat.'’ 

Still beating about the bush, the trader 
asked, — 

When you come round the big bog, 
didn’t you see signs of game there?” 

The Indian had no idea of being caught in 
such a trap, and answered unhesitatingly, 
without change of feature, — 

Bog in setting sun ; Injun come from 
rising sun, — sun rise that away.” 

Old Crowfeather still alive ? ” asked the 
trader. 


15 


226 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

^^Yes, him alive/' 

Is he hunting with you ? ” 

Crowfeather goin' make big camp, — no 
know where him goin' live,” replied the In- 
dian, evasively. 

After all these answers, the trader sus- 
pected that the Indian had tried to mislead 
him, and came to the conclusion that he 
must rely on his own sagacity to discover 
the boy. So after a moment's deliberation 
he invited the Indians to stay all night, say- 
ing that he would go home with them in the 
morning and see the remainder of the pic- 
tures. To this the Indians agreed, and they 
partook of the hot broth that by that time 
was cooked. 

After supper the traders produced pipes 
and a bottle of whiskey ; but the Indians, 
suspecting that the traders’ intentions were 
to get them intoxicated and learn their 
secret when in that condition, wisely re- 
frained from drinking, in spite of the white 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


227 


men’s urgent invitations. At a late hour 
they prepared for the night. The white 
men threw themselves down in a corner on 
a bed made of old potato and flour sacks, 
and the Indians rolled themselves up in 
their blankets and lay on the floor by the 
door of the cabin. 

When all had been silent for some time, 
the two white men cautiously rose and went 
towards the door. As they passed the In- 
dians, they stooped to examine their faces 
by the dim light. Satisfied that they were 
sleeping soundly, they passed out of the hut 
in the same cautious manner, and retreated 
to the back of the cabin, where they began 
a whispered conversation. 

No sooner were they there than Chief 
John threw back his blanket, and without 
making the slightest sound followed them, 
concealing himself behind a corner of the 
building. He could see the two white men 
standing at a short distance in the dim 


228 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

moonlight, and his quick ears caught every 
word of their conversation. 

He ’s got the boy ; you may bet your 
life on that,’’ he heard the one-eyed man 
say. 

But where ? — that ’s the question,” said 
the other. 

Old Crowfeather ’s left in charge of the 
main camp, and it ’s more ’n likely they 
captured the boy while they was out huntin’. 
The camp ’s too fur off ; them picturs was 
'made sence they left the big camp,” said 
the one-eyed man. 

“ I reckon you ’re right, Cap’n,” replied 
the other. What ’s your plan ? ” 

We’ll go back with ’em in the mornin’ 
to see the rest of the picturs, and find out 
where the camp ’s situated, and try to get 
hold • of some news of the boy,” said the 
one-eyed man. 

A boy that can make sech nat’ral pic- 
turs as that is wuth a good deal. His 


AND THE WANDEEER. 


229 


dad will come down handsome to git him 
back. Should n’t be surprised if he ’d give 
a thousand dollars to git hold of him ag’in,” 
said the red-haired man. 

A thousand ! ” sneered the other. He 
won’t git him back till I see a good ten 
thousand of his money ! ” 

How do you propose to go to work ? ” 
asked the red-haired man. 

Find out fust jest where he is, then nab 
him some night when they ’re not expect- 
in’ us.” 

You don’t expect they ’ll give him up 
without showin’ fight, do you ? ” 

’T ain’t likely their hunting-party num- 
bers more ’n five or six men at the most ; 
and if three well-armed white men ain’t a 
match for six Injuns, it ’s a pity,” replied the 
one-eyed man. 

But they ’ll suspect we ’re after him and 
hide him out of the way, won’t they, Cap’n ? ” 
^‘We won’t give ’em time for’t; we’ll 


230 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

go home with ^em and offer ’em a good 
price for their picturs, and you bet they ’ll 
hang on to the goose that lays the golden 
eggs.” 

Injuns is wary devils to deal with,” be- 
gan the red-headed man. 

“ Yes, Injuns is wary ; but brains tells in 
the long run, and ’t won’t be the fust time 
I’ve outwitted a Injun. We may as well 
turn in now, for Injuns is early risers, and 
they ’ll make an early start.” 

When the white men cautiously re-entered 
the hut, the two Indians were in the same 
position in which they had been left, evi- 
dently in deep slumber. 

Heavy breathing from the bed in the 
corner soon announced that the white men 
were asleep ; and when this sound had con- 
tinued for some time, the two Indians si- 
lently rose, rolled up their blankets, collected 
the goods they had obtained in exchange for 
their wares, and noiselessly left the cabin. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


231 


By the time the white men awoke from 
their heavy sleep, the Indians were far on 
their way to the hunters’ camp, travelling 
with such speed as only Indians can make 
through the obstructions of a dense forest. 


232 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER XYI. 

^HIEF JOHN was not the only listener 
^ to the midnight conversation of the 
traders. The West- wind lingered about the 
old cabin, breathing gently, as if he feared 
to attract the attention of the two men, — 
roaming lightly about between the cabin 
and the forest, as if he communicated to the 
trees what the white men were plotting; 
and the trees rustled their leaves softly, and 
a mild murmur ran through them, as if in 
sympathy with his whispered words. 

The declining hunter’s Moon, too, kept 
her watchful eyes on the pair, and her face 
wore a sad expression, as if she regretted 
her waning light and wished she might 
linger to aid the unfortunate boy against 
whom these wicked men were plotting. 
The evening star shone out brighter than 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


233 


ever, as though it would say, Do not look 
so sad, old friend ! We will all help to light 
the lonely boy on his way.” And star after 
star, twinkling brighter than ever, seemed 
to answer, And I ; ” And I ; ” And I.” 

The shining Milky Way seemed to grow 
broader and broader, as if it were trying to 
tell what it could do ; and the Northern 
Lights flashed brightly up in the clear 
sky, as if to outdo the others. 

All this the West- wind heard, and seemed 
to answer, — 

“We will all help; and if need be, the 
North-wind can come down from the lakes 
with one of his heavy fogs, and blind the 
pursuers.” 

The disappointment of the traders at find- 
ing the Indians gone was great. 

“ We ’d ought to have know’d the deceit- 
ful critturs better, and kept a watch over 
’em, so as to foller ’em,” said the red-headed 


man. 


234 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Foller an Injun! ” sneered the one-eyed 
man. 'T ain’t so easy as you think. 
They ’d have led us in jest the opposite way 
to where the boy is, and then given us the 
slip, and had him hid out of the way before 
we knew they was gone.” 

What do you propose to do about it?” 
asked the other, who always had a profound 
respect for his companion’s sagacity. 

Outwit him,' if we can, though ’t ain’t 
the easiest thing alive to outwit a Injun. 
Fust we’ll try the beaver-dam.” 

But he said they was n’t huntin’ beavers 
this fall, — that they was scarce,” replied 
the red-headed man. 

When you ’ve hed as much experience 
with Injuns as I ’ve hed, Jake, you ’ll I’arn 
to take ’em by the opposite of what they 
says. He said they war n’t huntin’ beavers 
this season, — that they was scarce ; well, to 
my mind, that means that they he huntin’ 
’em, and that there’s plenty of ’em. He 


AND THE WANDEKEE. 


235 


’lowed that he had some skins, and wanted a 
pound of powder apiece for ’em. So to the 
beaver-dam we ’ll go fust.” 

The three men lost no time in prepara- 
tion, and in a short time they were equipped 
with guns, ammunition, and food enough to 
sustain them for a few days. 

Locking the cabin, the three started on 
their expedition, the one-eyed man taking 
the lead. They could not follow a trail as 
the Indians did. Boughs bent out of place 
and twigs snapped off had no meaning for 
them ; nor could they trace, as the Indians 
could, the impress of feet on the grassy turf 
or on dead leaves. They had their land- 
marks, such as oddly shaped trees, large 
rocks, brooks, rivers, etc. ; but without the 
instinct the Indians possessed to guide them, 
their progress was slow. 

Chief John had told them that they had 
started at noon. If that were true, the 
hunting-camp could not be very far off. 


236 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

But the traders were by no means sure 
of the fact; it might have been in the 
morning, or the night before, or possibly 
the morning of the day before. That they 
had spent a night on the journey seemed 
probable, as they had their blankets with 
them. 

When night came on, the traders found 
themselves still far from the beaver-dam ; 
and making a fire, they went to sleep in the 
manner of the Indians, with their feet to- 
wards it and their backs against trees. In 
the morning they started early, and by 
noon found themselves approaching the 
dam. Now they proceeded with great 
caution, creeping through the woods as 
stealthily as they could, often stopping to 
listen. By degrees they reached the edge 
of the forest, and the beaver-dam lay be- 
fore them. 

Not a wigwam was in sight, and not a 
living creature, with the exception of two 


AND THE WANDERER. 


237 


black, round heads that bobbed up from the 
water and stared curiously at the intruders. 

Much as they would have liked to obtain 
the skins of the beavers, the men dared not 
fire, for fear of warning the Indians, should 
any be about there, of their approach. They 
silently skirted the dam, but neither camp 
nor trace of a camp could they discover. 

’T ain’t any use to try t’ other side of 
the mountain, Cap’n, I s’pose ? ” the red- 
haired man ventured to suggest, as the one- 
eyed man pondered on the best course to 
pursue. 

I don’t know why ’t ain’t,” he answered ; 

the Injuns .’lowed the game was lean 
there, and ’t was n’t no use lookin’ there 
for ’em. Yes, I ’m for tryin’ t’ other side 
the mountain.” 

The place referred to was not many hours’ 
journey from the beaver-dam ; and they 
reached it late at night, footsore and weary, 
only to find disappointment once more, — 


238 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

for no trace of an Indian encampment was 
to be seen. Weary and cross, the disap- 
pointment was even greater than before ; 
and while the leader of the party was 
considering what to do next, the other 
two men conferred together in low tones, 
which gradually grew louder, until their 
discontented expressions reached the ears 
of their leader. 

What 're you grumblin' about ? " he 
asked, looking, with a scowl, from one to the 
other of the dissatisfied men. 

a We Ve come all this way for nothin','’ 
replied the red-headed man, sulkily, and 
we 've come to the conclusion that we 've 
had ’bout enough of it." 

You hev n’t come any further than I 
hev, I reckon. Don’t you s’pose my feet 
can feel sore as well as yours ? " 

I would n’t mind my feet feelin' sore, if 
you 'd make it wuth while, Cap’n,’’ said the 
third man, who seldom joined in the conver- 


AND THE WANDERER. 


239 


sation ; but when there ain’t nothing to 
be gained by it, why, I’d ruther be back 
in camp.” 

Who said there was n’t nothing to be 
gained ? ” demanded the leader, fiercely. 
“Did you ever know the time when One- 
eyed Jack refused to go shares with his 
mates, when he made a good job ? ” 

“I hain’t no great fault to find on that 
score,” answered the other ; “ but finding 
the boy is oncertain, and then if we do 
find him, it ’s jest as oncertain whether 
there ’s any money in it, — his folks may be 
poor.” 

“ Them ’s jest my sentiments, Cap’n,” as- 
sented the red-haired man. “ It ’s an oncer- 
tain job any way you put it. The boy ain’t 
found yet, and we don’t know as there ’s any 
money to be had when he is found.” 

“ He ’ll he found before many days is past,” 
asserted the one-eyed man, if he ’s in the 
land o’ the livin’ \ and as for money, if his 


240 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

guv’nor has n’t got the money we want for 
him, you may depend on ’t that some of his 
folks has. Do you think a boy like him, 
that talks as good as a dictionary, was n’t 
brought up ’niongst rich folks ? ” 

There ’s something in that, Cap’n,” re- 
sponded the red-haired man, who was al- 
ways influenced by the superior mind of 
his leader. 

Things don’t look cheerful on an empty 
stomach,” said the Captain, so let ’s have 
a bite, and a good night’s sleep on top of 
it ; and if tilings don’t look more promising 
in the morning, I ’m mistaken.” 

This advice was acted upon; and after 
satisfying their appetites the tired men 
rolled themselves in their blankets, and 
slept soundly all night. 

The leader of the party was the first to 
awake ; and when the others opened their 
eyes, they found him seated on a log at a 
short distance, deep in thought. 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


241 


I Ve thought it all out, boys,” he said, 
as they joined him, and I ’ve come to the 
conclusion to try the big swamp. It seems 
natural, now I think of it, that the Injuns 
would be likely to put the swamp between 
them and anybody that might be search- 
ing for ’em. It’s a fust-rate place to lose 
your way in, and a place they ’d nat’ rally 
choose.” 

However can we git round it?” asked 
the others. Do you know the way, 
Cap’n ? ” 

‘‘ As well as I know the nose on my face,” 
he answered ; I camped over there one 
season, and I ’m acquainted with every foot 
of the land.” 

The night’s sleep had greatly refreshed 
the party ; and after a hasty breakfast they 
started off in the direction of the big swamp, 
with spirits greatly revived. Early in the 
evening of the next day they reached the 
outskirts of the swamp, and halted for a rest. 

16 


242 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

TKe leader of the party, whose physical 
and mental powers seemed untiring, started 
out on a tour of investigation. Late at 
night he returned, and his confident manner 
announced to his companions that he had 
obtained important information. 

Good news, boys ! ” he exclaimed, as 
he threw himself down beside them ; I Ve 
found ’em. They ’re not three mile away 
from here, and I ’ve had my eyes on the 
very boy we ’re looking for.” 

You ’re a trump, Cap’n ! ” exclaimed his 
companions, regarding their leader with 
admiration. 

“ I crept along where the grass is soft by 
the brook,” explained the one-eyed man, 
till I got opposite the camp. The grass 
was so soft I could tread without making 
noise enough even for a Injun to hear me. 
The brook made a thunderin’ racket, though, 
and I thought sometimes the Injuns must 
notice it, for it did go like all possessed.” 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


243 


They ’re used to it, most likely,” said 
the red-haired man, and did n’t notice it. 
Brooks does make a awful noise sometimes.” 

Well, the Injuns didn’t take the alarm,” 
continued the leader ; “ and as I said, I got 
opposite the camp, down where the woods 
was thickest, and hid where they couldn’t 
see me. The camp ’s up on a hill, and the 
sky was kind of clouded over ; and as luck 
would have it, jest as I was considerin’ 
whether ’t would be safe to ventur any 
nigher, out come the stars, and I could see 
the camp quite plain.” 

You see the boy ? ” asked both of his 
companions together. 

I see the boy,” answered the leader. 

The chiefs wigwam was nighest me, and 
I see the boy standin’ in the doorway as 
plain as I see you two.” 

When do you plan to nab him ? ” asked 
the one-eyed man. 

To-night. He ’s there now, in the 


I 


244 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

chiefs tent ; and ’t is n’t safe for us to stay 
here after to-night, or they ’ll scent us out 
and take him off under our very noses.” 

Soon after midnight the three men started 
for the hunting-camp, creeping stealthily 
along the course of the brook until the 
leader stopped and signalled to them to 
keep back. No noise was to be heard but 
the wind swaying the tree-tops, and the 
loud rushing of the brook as it hurried foam- 
ing over the stones that lay in its path. 

It beats all what a racket that brook 
makes ! ” said the one-eyed man in a whis- 
per ; Niagara Falls is nothin’ to it.” 

The sleeping Indian camp lay silent be- 
fore them, dark, except for the half-burnt- 
out fires that glowed in front of the wig- 
wams. The west-wind had blown all day ; 
but as night came on, a colder temperature 
prevailed, with a wind that gradually in- 
creased in force. 

The men stood gazing at the camp in 


AND THE WANDERED. 


245 


silence. Not a soul was to be seen. The 
leader of the little party took a step for- 
ward and stood still. The tallest forest-trees 
clashed together with a loud report. 

" The wind has changed/’ he explained to 
his companions in a low tone. The north- 
wind will serve our turn better. The more 
racket the trees make, the less chance of 
their hearing us.” 

By degrees the wind rose, and black 
clouds gathered over the camp, shutting out 
the light of the moon and stars. Only the 
dimly burning fires now gave light to the 
camp. 

Cautiously up the hill crept the three 
men, holding their guns in the hollow of 
their arms, and stopping every moment to 
listen. Not a sound broke the stillness of 
the night but the crashing of the forest-trees 
and the loud roaring of the brook. 

Heavier and blacker grow the clouds that 
have settled over the sleeping camp. The 


246 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

three creeping figures have reached the 
wigwam of the chief, and stand immovable 
for an instant ; then the leader cautiously 
approaches the open entrance, and beckons 
to his companions to approach. The three 
men enter in the same silent manner, and 
a moment later the whole camp seems alive. 
The shrieking of women and children is 
heard above the crashing of the wind and 
the crackling of rifles; and a blinding fog 
settles down over the camp, shutting out all 
objects. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


247 


CHAPTER XVII. 

'^HE traders found all silent in the wig- 
wam. By the dim light they descried 
the indistinct outlines of the sleeping In- 
dians, lying motionless in their blankets; 
and the white men groped their way to the 
back of the tent, where in one corner lay 
a figure they thought to be the boy they 
sought. 

The one-eyed man stooped to examine 
more closely the indistinct features ; and at 
the instant up started the sleeping Indians, 
and in a moment more the air resounded 
with the cries of terrified women and 
children. 

Not desiring to shed blood unless abso- 
lutely necessary, and intent only on captur- 
ing the boy, the white men had hoped to 
seize him and bear him oS before the In- 


248 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

dians were aroused ; but the alarm being 
given, the whole camp was in commotion 
before they had attained their object. 

The fog closed in denser and denser, and 
soon it became so dark that they could see 
neither friends nor enemies. Now they 
seize a dark object that turns out to he one 
of their own party, and again they run 
against a stump or tree, and loud impreca- 
tions mingle with the roaring of the brook 
and the crashing of the wind through the 
trees. Several shots are fired at random, 
but no one is hit. 

For a second the fog lifts, and the stars 
are seen, disclosing dark figures lurking be- 
hind trees; but when the white men seek 
to reach them, the blinding fog settles down 
heavier than before, and they grope help- 
lessly about in the darkness. 

The fierce North-wind blows the fog aside 
for an instant, and the whole camp is seen, 
disclosing wigwams blown down and their 


AND THE WANDERER. 


249 


contents scattered, with not an Indian in 
sight ; then a drenching rain pours down, 
soon turning to sleet and hail, and the white 
men are driven to seek the forest. In their 
mad rush for a shelter, they become sepa- 
rated, and vainly endeavor to find one an- 
other by calling ; but their voices are lost 
in the wild roar of the elements, and the 
sound is so blown out of its course by the 
wind that they can form no conception of 
each other s whereabouts. 

The anxious inquiry, Where are you, 
Cap’n is thrown back from the echo on 
the mountain by many voices, that seem to 
mock them in their misery. Intent only on 
reaching a shelter from the drenching rain 
and cutting sleet, each seeks the first cover 
that offers itself, and waits for the storm to 
abate. 

All this time the boy for whom this ex- 
pedition was undertaken was safe under the 
guidance of his friend, the young Indian. 


250 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Early in the evening, when all were asleep in 
their camp, the young Indian was awakened 
by a breath of the West- wind fanning his 
cheek. Opening his eyes, he saw the stars 
shining in through the opening of the wig- 
wam ; and as he gazed, they seemed to 
beckon to him to come forth. The bright 
Evening Star stood over the wigwam where 
the white boy lay asleep, and to the In- 
dian’s imagination seemed to direct him 
there. The Brook, too, murmured loudly 
as he hastened on his way to the river; 
and obeying these voices of Nature, the 
young Indian crept lightly to the wigwam 
over which the Evening Star kept watch, 
and looked in through the open door. 

All was silent. The white boy lay on 
his bed of fir-boughs by the entrance, 
quietly sleeping, his calm face shining 
white in the faint starlight ; and the young 
Indian, bending over him, touched him 
lightly on the shoulder. 









“ The two hurried along as rapidly as they could, 

the lead.” — Page 251. 


the Indian taking 






















AND THE WANDEREK. 


251 


Hastily opening his eyes, and seeing the 
Indian’s face so close to his, the boy felt 
no fear, for he knew his friend had come 
to keep his promise and take him home. 

Evening Star say time come for take 
white boy home,” whispered the Indian, 
softly. White boy step soft, — follow 
Injun.” 

Edmund quickly obeyed, and followed his 
guide without a moment’s hesitation. The 
silent pair stole softly through the camp, 
and descended the hill till they reached 
the brook, that now rushed along more 
madly than ever. 

Brook say, ^ Follow me,’ — brook go that 
away,” said the Indian, pointing in the di- 
rection the foaming water was rushing; 

Injun go that away too.” 

The two hurried along as rapidly as they 
could; the Indian taking the lead, helping 
the boy over hard places, and bending 
back boughs that obstructed the way. 


252 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Brook go through swamp, — Injun go 
through swamp too. White man go round 
swamp, — him too fool find Injun in swamp,’' 
explained the Indian. 

Do you think they will find us ? ” asked 
Edmund, anxiously. 

White man no find Injun,” replied the 
young Indian, confidently. “ West-wind 
say, ^ Injun, white man come for white boy.’ 
Evening Star say, ^ Take white boy away 
where white man no find him.’ Brook say, 
‘Come this away,’ — Injun know what him 
means.” 

“ That ’s the way they talk to me,” said 
Edmund ; “ the old oak at home used to be 
a real comfort to me when I was unhappy. 
Do you think I ’ll see them all again soon ? ” 

“ Home far away, — heap miles away. 
Injun take white boy to railroad ; then him 
go back to tribe, white boy go home.” 

They proceeded silently for a while, mak- 
ing their way through the dense underbrush 


AND THE WANDERER. 


253 


with difficulty. After a while the Indian re- 
marked pointing behind him, — 

Big fog that away, — north-wind blow 
down from lakes. Fog not this away, — 
stars show Injun way ; ” and as he spoke 
the stars seemed to shine brighter than 
ever, and the northern lights flashed up 
over the tall tree-tops. The hunter’s moon 
too appeared, and seemed to look approv- 
ingly down on the pair, — lighting up the 
dark eyes and swarthy skin of the young 
Indian, and bringing into strong relief the 
outlines of his agile figure, as he lightly 
sprang across the marshy places and ex- 
tended a helping hand to his charge ; and 
as Edmund glanced up at his dark face, 
his confident manner inspired him with 
new courage, and redoubled his energy. 

At last a rain set in, and the Indian 
continued more rapidly, keeping the boy’s 
hand in his, to help him along faster on 
his way. 


254 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

No go far in swamp. Injun know where 
cave, — keep white boy warm. Injun take 
food in cave heap days ago ; know white man 
come soon for take white boy away, — wait 
till West- wind say, ^ Come,’ ” said the Indian. 

The Indian spoke truly. In a short time 
the dreary swamp was crossed, and the pair 
found themselves in front of a clear lake. 
Still leading the tired boy, the Indian 
stopped in front of a large rock, before 
which a broad hemlock grew. Thrusting 
aside the thick branches, an opening was 
disclosed, and they entered a good-sized 
cave. Dry fir-boughs were piled up into 
a soft bed on one side ; and pointing to 
them, the Indian said, — 

White boy sleep there. White man 
no find way here, — white man go round 
swamp ; four, five, three days that away.” 

Edmund took the Indian’s advice, and 
threw himself on the boughs, the Indian 
lying by his side ; but the excited con- 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


255 


dition of the boy’s nerves kept him awake 
long after the Indian’s quiet and regular 
breathing announced him to be asleep. 

Silent as the woods are in the daytime, 
at night they are as noisy as the streets 
'of a large city, except that they are peopled 
with animals instead of human beings, — all 
of them out seeking a living. The wind 
howls dismally through the forest, some- 
times dying away for an instant, with only 
the chirp of some belated cricket to break 
the stillness, then gradually rising by de- 
grees until it reaches its height, and hurl- 
ing itself against the tallest forest-trees 
until they rock like slender saplings, oc- 
casionally a sharp report arising as a sturdy 
limb is torn asunder. 

At last the wind grows gradually less, 
and the noises of the forest become more 
distinct. Edmund begins to doze; and as 
his mind gradually becomes unconscious, 
a large owl, lighting on the hemlock- tree 


256 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

in front of the cave, suddenly gives three 
loud hoots, and he starts up in terror. The 
Indian rouses, and explains sleepily, — 

Big scree'bh-owl, — him no hurt white 
boy. White boy sleep, — start when morn- 
ing come.” 

This Edmund tries to do ; but the whole 
forest is so alive with sounds that he can 
but listen. A little hedgehog keeps up its 
faint squeak just outside the cave, and the 
whining bark of foxes is heard at inter- 
vals. He shuts his eyes tightly, and tries 
to sleep, when his eyelids suddenly fly open 
as a long-drawn howl reaches his ears. 

What is that noise ? ” he exclaims, 
clutching the Indian, who lies quietly by 
his side. 

Wolf howl — heap far away in forest. 
Wolf knows heap, — no come where Injun 
is, no come this away,” is the reassuring 
answer of the sleepy Indian, who immedi- 
ately continues his broken slumber. 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


257 


The white boy’s excited imagination pic- 
tures wolves prowling about the wilderness 
in search of food, and in spite of the In- 
dian’s assertion that they are too knowing 
to venture near an Indian encampment, is 
not wholly reassured. He lies listening for 
a repetition of the sound. It comes again 
after a while, but more distant ; again it 
comes, but so far off and faint that he can 
hardly hear the cry. 

Again the excited boy closes his eyes, 
and resolves to open them no more. The 
sounds grow ^fainter and fainter, and a 
gentle doze is by degrees stealing upon 
him, when suddenly there arose a shriek so 
long and loud, so like a human voice in 
distress, that the terrified boy starts to his 
feet, exclaiming, — 

‘‘ They Ve coming, they ’re coming ! Don’t 
let them take me away ! ” 

The Indian quietly puts his hand on the ter- 
rified boy’s shoulder, saying soothingly, — 

17 


258 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

White boy lie still ; white man no come 
here, — loon going fly soon/’ 

^^But what was that frightful noise?” 
cries Edmund, in distress. It was some- 
body in agony. Some one must be dread- 
fully hurt to make a noise like that.” 

White man no make noise, Injun no 
make noise either. Loon going fly soon, — 
wait till wind changes, cry again bime- 
by, fly when morning come,” explains the 
Indian. 

Where is it ? ” asks Edmund, some- 
what reassured by the Indian’s manner and 
explanation. It sounded right in front of 
the cave.” 

Loon on lake, — wait till wind change,” 
repeats the Indian. White boy look out, 
see big loon sitting on water.” 

Edmund pushes aside the hemlock-boughs 
that obstruct the entrance to the cave, and 
looks out. The rain has ceased, and the 
lake lies calm and serene in the moonlight. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


259 


There big loon, — cry again soon,” says 
the Indian. 

Sitting on the water, with its long neck 
stretched out and its broad wings flapping, 
waiting for the wind to change, is a large 
bird which Edmund has never before seen. 
As he looks, again comes the piercing cry. 

^‘Him sit there till wind change, then 
him fly,” says the Indian. Now white 
boy sleep.” 

The white boy did sleep at last in ear- 
nest, and so deep was his slumber that even 
the flying of the loon in the morning failed 
to wake him. The Indian roused him soon 
after sunrise, and told him it was time to 
start. 

The woods, so full of discordant sounds ^ 
during the night, were now silent except 
for the rustling of the leaves in the light 
breeze ; and the boy ate the food that the 
Indian set before him, and was eager to 
continue his journey. 


260 


THE WINDS, THE WOOD, 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

DMUND and the young Indian started 



again on their journey, the Indian 
carrying a large package. As Edmund 
had not seen it before, he manifested sur- 
prise, and the Indian answered, — 

White boy want money when him come 
to white settlement, — him have no money. 
Injun no have money either. Injun make 
bows and arrows, — mjike moccasins too, 
— bring ’em in cave, sell ’em to white 
peoples, — then white boy have money 
take him home.” 

When I get home, I know my imcle 
will pay you for all you’ve done for me,” 
said the boy, warmly. 

Injun no want pay. White boy love 
forest, — know what moon say, know what 


AND THE WANDERER. 


261 


wind say too; Injun know what him say 
too. White boy make pictures of sky, — 
make pictures of brook. Injun too fool 
make pictures, — pictures in Injun’s heart, 
no make ’em on bark.” 

I know what you mean,” said Edmund, 
his face glowing with enthusiasm. We 
both love the same things ; the only differ- 
ence is that I make them again, while the 
pictures stay in your heart.” 

That what Injun mean ; him have Injun 
tongue, no say what him feel, — heart 
white if tongue Injun.” 

Yes, our hearts are alike,” replied Ed- 
mund. You understand me better than 
any one else.” ?- 

Late that evening the two travellers 
stopped before an empty cabin that had 
been used as a trading-station, and there 
they passed the night. At sunrise the 
next morning they started again, and 
after a few hours’ journey they struck the 


262 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

railroad. Following it for a while, they by 
degrees approached a white settlement. 

Now and then cultivated land appeared, 
and at intervals a log-cabin, and finally a 
railroad-station. 

Edmund’s heart beat fast as his eyes 
fell on a brilliantly tinted hand-bill pasted 
against the rough boards of the depot. 
Pictures of lions and tigers, spirited horses 
with exceedingly arched necks, ladies 
in gauzy attire leaping through hoops 
wreathed with roses and hoops flaming 
with fire, an educated pig pondering over 
an alphabet placed before him, a musical 
seal pensively turning a hand-organ, — 
these and many other such pictures that 
so greatly delight boys’ hearts, reminded 
Edmund that he had at last returned to 
civilization. 

Both of the travellers forgot their weari- 
ness in the pleasing occupation of examining 
these fascinating hand-bills ; and Edmund 


AND THE WANDERER. 


263 


read that that very afternoon an exhibi- 
tion of the wonders of the circus would 
be given in that town. 

Injun sell bows and arrows mebbe. 
Heap white peoples come see show, — - come 
heap miles away/’ said the Indian. 

The Indian was right. As they entered 
the town (one of those cities that spring 
up so suddenly in the far West), they saw 
people arriving from all directions, — some 
from the railroad, others on foot, looking as 
if they had walked many weary miles, and 
some in wagons of every description, — all 
intent on seeing the show. 

The little town, with its roughly boarded 
houses, presented a very gala appearance ; 
and Edmund rejoiced to be again among 
people of his own color. 

Eude booths, with glasses of lemonade 
and plates of cookies and gingerbread ar- 
ranged temptingly on the counters, and 
bottles of ginger-ale and root-beer packed 


264 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

in tubs of cracked ice, stood at every 
corner. 

The two travellers followed the crowd of 
people that were all going in one direc- 
tion ; and before long the large circus-tent 
with its festoons of many-colored flags 
appeared in sight, and later the smaller 
tents of the side shows, with life-sized rep- 
resentations of the living curiosities ex- 
hibited within, painted on large sheets of 
canvas and hung up in front of each tent. 
The largest woman on earth, the smallest 
woman on earth, the man skeleton, the 
fattest man living, the man without arms 
who wrote and made pictures and played 
on musical instruments, the troupe of 
wonderful performing dogs, the minstrel 
troupe, — all these representations, ele- 
gantly colored without regard to expense, 
were almost as satisfactory as the living 
subjects they represented. 

From the minstrels’ tent could be heard. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


265 


at one moment comic songs and shouts 
of laughter from the appreciative audience, 
and the next instant there would he dead 
silence as a song was heard commemorat- 
ing some dying relative’s last request, or 
a banjo accompaniment to the memory of 
somebody’s Nelly who had been torn from 
his side by violence. 

The sounds of a harp and violin issuing 
from one tent, a cornet and piano from 
another, and an accordion from a third, 
gave a festive atmosphere to the whole 
scene that would stir any boy’s heart to 
its depths. 

An occasional roar from the lion or tiger, 
or a bellow from the sea-lion added greatly 
to the enjoyment of the scene ; and some 
of the more fortunate caught an occasional 
glimpse of a horse’s tail or foot, as he 
passed from his quarters through the cov- 
ered passage-way that led into the large 
performing-tent. 


266 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Taking in all these wonders, the young 
Indian soon bethought himself of the ob- 
ject that brought him there, and joining 
the various traders stationed on the out- 
skirts of the circus-ground with their wares, 
selected a favorable spot and opened his 
package. His well-made bows and arrows 
and moccasins found favor in the eyes 
of the crowd, and he made many sales, 
Edmund receiving the money and making 
change for him. 

Stationed near by, was a man cutting 
profiles out of paper for those who desired 
likenesses of themselves. These 'found great 
favor in the eyes of the crowd, and he 
could not keep pace with the demand for 
pictures that constantly increased. 

Edmund had never seen profiles cut 
in this manner ; but curiosity led him to 
watch the process, and he pressed as near 
the artist as the crowd about him would 
permit. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


267 


Can’t you hurry up matters a little ? ” 
asked a farmer, who had been patiently 
awaiting his turn ; me and the old wo- 
man want our likenesses took if it’s a 
possible thing.” 

I ’ve been waiting about an hour al- 
ready,” said a pretty girl, who had been 
passing the time in arranging the blue and 
pink ribbons that adorned her fichu into 
a more becoming position ; and if my 
turn does n’t come soon, I ’m going into 
the circus.” 

In jest a few minutes, ladies and gentle- 
men,” answered the artist, encouragingly, — 
jest as soon as your turn comes. Unfor- 
tunately I can’t do but one picture to onst.” 

Edmund pressed to the man’s side. If 
you will give me a pair of scissors and some 
paper, I can help you,” he said modestly. 

^^You!” exclaimed the man, looking in 
astonishment at the boy. 

He did present a peculiar appearance, 


268 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

clad partly in the clothes he had on at the 
time of the shipwreck, and partly in gar- 
ments supplied by the Indians. 

I don’t know about your making 'pic- 
turs ; but one thing is sartain, — you ’d make 
a uncommon good scarecrow.” 

Edmund was not deterred from his pur- 
pose by the laugh that the artist’s joke 
created. 

I know I can do it, if you will let me 
try,” he repeated, and these people will 
not have to wait so long.” 

It may be fun for you,” said the artist, 
but I can’t afford to lose good trade by 
having folks go away dissatisfied.” 

Oh, let the youngster try ! ” called out 
a young man. Try my portrait, sonny, 
and if you spoil my beauty. I’ll bear the 
expense. Come, old feller, give the young- 
ster a pair of scissors and a sheet of paper.” 

Thus adjured, the profile artist complied, 
and Edmund received his materials with de- 


AND THE WANDEREK. 


269 


light. Occasionally glancing at the young 
man as his scissors moved rapidly, before 
the artist himself had finished the picture 
he began at the same time, the boy handed 
his picture to the young man. 

Well, I ’m blessed if the youngster 
has n’t hit it ! ” he exclaimed, as he held 
up his portrait. 

There was his face clearly outlined ; his 
slouched hat looking as natural as life, and 
his long cigar protruding from one side of 
his heavily mustached mouth. 

The artist examined the picture with 
astonishment, but refrained from express- 
ing his approbation of work that far ex- 
celled anything he could do. 

Edmund was kept busy now. His next 
attempt was the old man and his wife. 
These were pleasing subjects, and he 
brought out the strong lines of the old 
couple with striking effect. 

‘‘That’s what I call nat’ral,” exclaimed 


270 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

the old man, as he critically examined his 
picture. “ I ain’t ashamed of my age ; and 
when I have my pictur took, I want to 
see it look like a man of my years, and 
not with a smooth face like a young feller 
of twenty.” 

The pretty girl was Edmund’s next sub- 
ject; and he soon handed her a likeness 
that was received with great satisfaction, 
— for there was her face as she saw it so 
many times every day in her looking-glass, 
a conscious smile playing about the pretty 
mouth. 

The artist was secretly delighted to find 
he had come upon such a prize. The boy 
was evidently poor, he reasoned, and would 
not make objection to any compensation he 
might offer him ; and with such decided 
talent as his, he could increase his business 
greatly. Very likely the boy could make 
colored portraits that would bring him in 
more money than the profile-cutting. He 


AND THE WANDERER. 271 

resolved to make a bargain with him after 
business was over. 

Edmund worked away industriously, de- 
lighted at the chance to practise his favor- 
ite occupation. Meanwhile the Indian sold 
his goods ; and when the circus was over 
and the crowd had dispersed, he joined 
Edmund once more. 

The artist was making the boy an offer 
to travel with him, and proposed a very 
small sum in compensation for what the 
boy was to do in return. This Edmund 
was ready to accept, thankful for any 
opportunity to earn money to take him 
home ; but his Indian friend interposed. 

White man no give money enough,’’ 
he said decidedly. White boy make pic- 
tures, — sell ’em to white peoples for heap 
money.” 

Oh, nonsense ! ” said the artist, good- 
naturedly ; such a boy as that can’t ex- 
pect to get much for his work.” 


272 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Expect heap ! ” replied the Indian, in- 
dignantly. White boy make great med- 
icine man one day, make heap picture 
now, — make picture moon, make picture 
stars, make picture woods ; white peoples 
give heap money for picture. Injun make 
bow and arrow ; white peoples give money 
for ’em. Injun give money to white boy, — 
take him home.” 

The artist listened attentively to the last 
words of the young Indian, and a sud- 
den thought entered his mercenary mind. 
Perhaps the boy had been stolen, and if 
a reward were offered for his recovery, 
it would be well to secure it. The boy, in 
spite of his poor clothes, had a refined air, 
and very likely came of wealthy parents. 

Where is the boy’s home?” he asked. 

^^Home far away,” replied the Indian, — 
^^heap mile away. Injun stay with white 
boy till make money take him home, — 
then Injun go back to tribe.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


273 


I have it ! ” said the artist to himself. 
(( Why in the world did n’t I think of it 
before ? But he only said aloud : I ’ll 
make it worth your while to stay with 
me. The boy’s worth as much to me as 
anybody, and I’m willing to pay for’t.” 


18 


274 


THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HE sudden thought that occurred to the 



^ profile artist was this. Some weeks 
before, while stopping in one of the Western 
cities, the following poster met his eye : — 

• Boy lost ! Two thousand dollars’ reward ! 
Boy of twelve years, named Edmund Merton. 
Large for his years, — brown eyes, brown hair, 
dark complexion with red cheeks. Has talent 
for drawing. When last seen was in the city of 
L , making pictures for his support. Is sup- 

posed to have been taken west by the men in 
whose company he was last seen. Any one giv- 
ing the undersigned any definite information con- 
cerning the missing boy will receive the above 


reward. 


Henry Merton. 


That ’s the youngster, you may depend 
on ’t ! said the profile artist to himself. 

‘ Talent for drawing,’ — that’s just what 
he ’s got. ’T is n’t every boy can make pic- 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


275 


turs as nat’ral as life. I won’t let him know 
I suspect who he is, or he ’ll be giving me the 
slip. Most Jikely he run away from home 
on account of some family difficulty, — 
gov’ner would n’t let him go to sea, or 
something of that kind. I ’ll write to the 
old man, and hang onto the youngster till 
he turns up, and it’ll be the easiest two 
thousand dollars I ever made.” 

These were the profile artist’s thoughts, 
but he took care to keep them to himself. 

I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do,” he said aloud ; 

I ’ll give you three dollars a week, though 
it ’s double what it ’s worth.” 

Edmund would have accepted any offer, 
so impatient was he to begin to earn some- 
thing ; but his Indian friend possessed more 
shrewdness. 

No enough money ! ” he exclaimed, 
shaking his head resolutely. White boy 
no go with white man, — him go with Injun. 
Injun make bow and arrow ; white boy 


276 


1 

I 

THE WINDS; THE WOODS; 


make picture; — make so much money him 
wants.” 

This plan did not suit the profile artist. 
The boy’s unusual talent had already gained 
him considerable reputation; and he would 
prove a dangerous rival should he leave 
him and set up in business for himself, 
aided too by the young Indian, who was 
very popular with the public. 

Well, then, call it four dollars a week, 
though I sha’n’t make a cent on it. I ’m 
willing to give the boy a start.” 

Four dollar no enough money,” said 
the Indian, with another resolute shake 
of the head, and turning to go. 

Well, then, four dollars and a quarter,” 
replied the profile artist, though it ’s 
more ’n any one else would give.” 

No enough money,” repeated the In- 
dian, doggedly. 

Well, then, call it four dollars and a 
half I shall lose by it anyway, and a 


AND THE WANDERER. 


277 


quarter of a dollar won’t make much 
difference.” 

No enough money/’ still repeated the 
young Indian, resolutely. White boy great 
medicine man one day, — make heap money. 
Give five dollar and white boy stay.” 

The profile artist considered a moment, 
and tlie Indian quietly tied his bundle more 
securely together. The artist saw that he 
was determined, and not willing to let the 
prize slip through his fingers, said with a 
groan, — 

Well, then, call it five ; but it ’s more ’n 
I make myself.” 

The Indian laid down his bundle. 

Then white boy stay,” he replied. 

When Edmund’s uncle, a few days later, 
received the profile artist’s letter, he handed 
it to his wife to read. 

Of course you will go at once,” she said. 

I don’t know,” he replied. It will turn 


278 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

out like all the rest. I shall be shown a boy 
I never saw before, and shall be vexed to 
think I have taken the journey for nothing.” 

Don’t say for nothing ! ” exclaimed his 
wife. Think of the poor motherless boy 
wandering about among strangers ! It is 
surely neglecting a great duty to leave 
any chance untried.” 

It will be a good lesson for him to 
have to look out for himself for a while,” 
replied her husbaud. Why did n’t he 
stay where I put him, instead of running 
away and getting himself into trouble ? 
He was safe enough there.” 

I know he never ran away without 
reason,” replied his wife, warmly. How 
could a sensitive boy like Edmund be 
happy with such a hard old man ? ” 

’T was the only way I knew of making 
a man of him. Perhaps when he comes 
back, he ’ll be willing to do something 
more useful than make senseless daubs.” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


279 


Those ^ senseless daubs ’ have served 
him a good turn. It makes my heart ache 
to think of the poor boy thrown on his own 
resources at his age, and selling his pictures 
to buy food. What could Fred do if he had 
been the one ? 

Fred would have sense enough to stay 
where he was put/’ said Mr. Merton. He 
will make a capital business man one of 
these days.” 

Edmund is much more industrious than 
Fred is/’ replied his wife, and always tried 
harder to please you ; but his nature is a 
different one, and I think we ought to culti- 
vate the talent that has been given him, 
instead of trying to change his nature. We 
are not all made in one mould fortunately, 
and the world would be a cheerless place to 
live in if some natures did not possess the 
power of bringing out the beautiful in Na- 
ture that practical natures do not see.” 

If you can see any beauty in those fool- 


280 rilE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

isli pictures Edmund always had lying about 
the house, you ’re welcome to ; only don’t 
try to argue me into thinking a boy like 
that is going to make a smart man.” 

You will go to find the boy this travel- 
ling artist speaks of, won’t you ? You have 
too good a heart to allow the poor child to 
suffer any longer than is necessary.” 

I suppose it will end in my going, re- 
plied Mr. Merton; ^^but I know just how 
it will turn out.” And his wife, knowing 
that his heart was kinder than his words 
implied, felt a great weight taken from her 
heart. 

Meanwhile Edmund and the young In- 
dian remained with the profile artist, who 
followed in the wake of the circus. The In- 
dian made his bows and arrows industriously, 
and in every town where they halted, added 
something to the little pile of money laid 
aside for Edmund’s journey home. He had 
become so attached to his little protege that 


AND THE WANDERER. 


281 


he never allowed him out of his sight, fear- 
ing that he might be taken away from 
him. This affection Edmund returned most 
heartily, and the two friends became every 
day more and more inseparable. 

Edmund and the young Indian had been 
with the travelling artist about two weeks, 
when, after an unusually busy afternoon, 
soon after they returned to the inn where 
they lodged, a knock was heard at the door 
of the little room they occupied. 

Edmund had, a moment before, gone to 
the artist's room to confer with him regard- 
ing some pictures he was making, and the 
Indian opened the door. A tall gentleman, 
a stranger, stood there, and asked to see the 
boy who roomed there. 

The young Indian, who lived in constant 
fear that the white boy would be again kid- 
napped, at once suspected that this stranger 
was some one acting in the interest of the 
traders, and put himself on his guard. 


282 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

White boy no here,” he said, emphati- 
cally shaking his head. 

They, told me at the office that he had 
just gone up to his room,” said the stranger. 

Man in office say too much lie, — white 
boy no here,” repeated the Indian. 

I am his uncle. I have come more than 
a thousand miles to take him home,” said 
the stranger. 

This assertion did not convince the In- 
dian, and he persistently replied, — 

White boy heap mile away, — five, ten, 
six mile away ; him come back some day, 
mebbe, — then Injun take him to him 
home.” 

Stand aside, and let me pass ! ” said the 
stranger, sternly. I know a white boy is 
here ; and if he is not the one I seek, I do 
not want him.” 

‘‘ White boy no here, — heap mile away 
where tribe is, — make great medicine man 
one day,” persisted the Indian. 


AND THE WANDERER. 


283 


The stranger, in his turn suspicious that 
the Indian had reasons for concealing the 
boy, that his friends might not obtain pos- 
session of him, resolved to penetrate the 
mystery at once. He placed his hand on 
the door to force it open; but the active 
young Indian was on the alert, and had it 
firmly braced, so that he could not stir it. 

At that moment, when affairs had taken 
so serious a turn, steps were heard coming 
along the passage-way, that the quick ear 
of the young Indian at once recognized, and 
he loosed his hold of the door. At the same 
moment there came a joyful cry of Uncle ! 
Uncle ! ” and the stranger suddenly turned. 

The young Indian’s keen eye took in the 
situation at once. The boy, so long absent 
from home, was full of joy at seeing his 
uncle ; but the uncle, although pleased to 
see his nephew, showed a reserve of manner, 
after the surprise of the first greeting, that 
made it evident to the Indian that some- 


284 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

thing did not please him, and his intelligent 
dark eyes roved anxiously from one face to 
the other. 

How is it about your running away 
from the farmer, where I put you ? '' asked 
the uncle, when he had answered the rapid 
questions Edmund put^ to him concerning 
the family at home. 

^‘1 ran away because he was unkind to 
me, uncle,” replied the boy. 

I’ve always considered him a just man,” 
replied his uncle. He tells me he treated 
you as well as he knew how, and you ran 
away in the night.” 

He did n’t treat me as well as he knew 
how,” replied the boy, looking up at his 
uncle with his honest eyes. “ He made me 
work in the field from morning till night. 
That I did n’t mind, for I was willing to 
work ; but when he took my paper and pen 
and ink and paint-box away, and locked me 
up in my attic with bread and water only, I 


AND THE WANDERER. 


285 


stood it as long as I could, and then 1 made 
up my mind to get away and go home to 
you ; for I knew you never meant for him 
to treat me so harshly.” 

Shut you up, and kept you on bread and 
water, did he ? He did n’t mention that,” 
said his uncle, looking keenly at him. 

‘‘ Yes, and he took away my money too, 
and he ’s got it now. I really did n’t mean 
any harm, uncle. I worked hard all day ; 
and when evening came, I was so lonesome 
and longed so to see you all and the old 
place, that I could bear it better if I made 
pictures of what I wanted to see so much.” 

How happened you to go to sea ? ” 
asked his uncle, whose manner had some- 
what softened before the boy’s earnestness. 

I did n’t have any money, and the cap- 
tain of the ‘ Nixie ’ promised to take me 
home if I would go with him. Then after 
the shipwreck I made a little money by 
making pictures of people, and then some 


286 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

men found out about me and promised to 
take me home. They did n’t, though ; and 
when I found out how they ’d cheated me 
and what bad men they were, I left ’em. 
Then this Indian found me, and took me 
home with him.” 


\ 


AND THE WANDEKER. 


287 


CHAPTER XX. 

"^^HILE this conversation was taking 
place between Edmund and his 
uncle, the young Indian had stood silently 
watching them, various emotions filling 
his heart, — pleasure, certainly, that the 
boy had at last found his friends, and at 
the same time regret that he was to lose 
the companion who had become so dear 
to him. 

Edmund, always sensitive to the moods 
of others, soon caught a glimpse of the 
young Indian’s face, and understood at 
once what was passing through his mind. 

Uncle, I can’t tell you what this In- 
dian has done for me,” he said, seizing 
his friend’s hand and drawing him forward. 

If it had n’t been for him, I should have 
been taken away by those dreadful men. 


288 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

He took me safely through the forest, and 
hid me when they tried to get me back. 
He ’s been selling bows and arrows to get 
money to take me home. When I’m a 
man I shall do something to pay him 
back for all he ’s done for me.” 

We ’ll see what can be done,” said 
his uncle. 

At that moment the profile artist made 
his appearance. 

Glad you ’ve turned up,” he said, rub- 
bing his hands gleefully as he thought of 
the reward that was now his. That was a 
lucky thought of mine, to hang onto the 
youngster till you arrived. I thought it 
better to keep dark on the subject, for fear 
he might give us the slip.” 

Have you expended anything on my 
nephew ? ” asked the stranger, whose shrewd 
eyes seemed to understand how matters 
stood. 

I don’t mind losing a trifle on his board,” 


AND THE WANDERER. 


289 


replied the artist. Of course a boy of that 
age is n’t of much use. I jest gave him 
something to do to keep him out of 
mischief.” 

The pensive expression that the young 
Indian’s face had worn at thought of the 
white boy’s leaving him, deserted him at 
these words, and his dark eyes gleamed 
indignantly. 

White man say too much lie ! ” he ex- 
claimed violently. White boy heap use ; 
make picture so much him can, — make 
heap better picture than white man.” 

Oh, come now ! ” said the profile artist ; 
you don’t expect anybody to believe that 
a boy like that can make as good pictures 
as a man that ’s worked at it all his life ? 

Heap better picture ! ” asserted the In- 
dian, vehemently. Peoples all want white 
boy make him picture ! White man too 
fool make picture. White boy make so 
much him can, — make picture all day ; 

19 


290 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

white man no do anything at all since white 
boy come/^ 

Is that true, Edmund ? ’’ asked his uncle, 
turning to the boy. Is it true that he has 
not paid out any money for you, and that 
you make more pictures than he does, as 
this young Indian says?^^ 

He agreed to pay me for my work,’’ 
said Edmund, and it will more than pay 
for my board. 

Has he paid you anything yet ? ” 

No,” replied Edmund ; but this In- 
dian has sold bows and arrows and mocca- 
sins, and has laid some by to take me 
home.” 

Very well, sir,” said Mr. Merton, turn- 
ing to the profile artist, as you have not 
yet paid my nephew for his work, I will 
consider that as an equivalent for your ap- 
prising me of his safety, and will settle his 
bill at the inn here myself.” 

‘^Well, I call that cool!” exclaimed the 


AND THE WANDERER. 


291 


artist, insolently. I would n’t have sent 
you that letter if I ’d known you was that 
kind of a fellow.” 

“ So I should judge,” replied Mr. Merton, 
coolly. ^^The reward belongs to the one 
who has made a sacrifice for the boy, and 
he shall have it ! ” and he laid his hand 
kindly on the young Indian’s shoulder. 

The young Indian looked at him in sur- 
prise. What him mean?” he asked, 
turning to Edmund. 

He means that he ’s going to pay some 
money to you for taking such good care 
of me,” replied Edmund, joyfully. 

Injun no want money,” said the young 
Indian, proudly. Injun love white boy ; 
white boy him friend, — no want money.” 

Edmund whispered something in his 
uncle’s ear, to which he replied, We ’ll 
see.” 

Mr. Merton looked critically at the young 
Indian. He was such a fine specimen of 


292 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

his race, and possessed such an intelligent 
countenance, that the examination was 
evidently satisfactory ; for he said, — 

How would you like to go home with 
us and learn to read and write and be 
taught a trade ? ’’ 

The Indian shook his head sadly. In- 
jun too fool for learn read and write. Him 
love forest, — no be happy in big town 
where white people live,” he replied. 

It ’s of no use, you see, Edmund,” said 
hfe uncle ; “ he prefers his own way of 
living.” 

The young Indian refused to take any 
reward for his services, insisting that he 
took care of Edmund out of friendship, — 
because the white boy loved the forest 
and the moon and stars and brooks, as he 
did. After many entreaties from Edmund, 
he agreed to accept a small sum of money 
with which to buy presents to take back to 
Chief John, in order to compensate him for 


AND THE WANDEEER. 293 

the loss of the boy, for whom he expected 
to receive a reward. 

Edmund accompanied his friend on an 
expedition to make the purchases, and 
was considerably surprised at his choice 
of presents. 

The first object that pleased his fancy 
was a large feather duster, which he insist- 
ed on buying. Edmund rather demurred 
at the purchase of an article that would 
be of so little service in an Indian camp, 
but reflection convinced him that the 
chiefs son knew his father’s tastes better 
than he did. 

His next choice was a military brass 
.helmet, with a waving white plume ; and 
then a ^‘Jumping Jack” took his fancy, 
which toy was a source of the greatest 
entertainment to him. Several other pres- 
ents of a similar character he selected, 
and to these Edmund’s uncle added a fine 
rifle for himself. 


294 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

Edmund, remembering his former charges, 
the little Indian children, contributed a 
large package of confectionery, and even 
sent a gayly colored handkerchief to the 
cross squaw who had been such a hard 
mistress. 

The parting between the two young 
friends was a sad one; Edmund earnestly 
assuring his friend that when he was a 
man he should go to the West and find 
him out. 

Injun see moon; white boy see moon 
too,’’ said the Indian at parting. Wind 
go from Injun to white boy, — tell him what 
him knows.” 

Yes,” replied the boy ; when I see 
the moon, I shall know that she is looking 
down on you at the same time ; and I 
shall feel almost as if the wind could take 
messages to you. I shall never forget 
you.” 

As the train left the depot, Edmund, 


AND THE WANDERER. 


295 


from the window of his car, waved adieus 
to his friend ; and when he could no longer 
distinguish his figure, feelings of regret at 
parting from this warm and tried friend 
saddened him; but as he realized that he 
was being rapidly carried towards his old 
home, his sorrow at parting with his In- 
dian friend gradually gave place to joy at 
the prospect of meeting his aunt and cou- 
sins once more. His uncle questioned him 
concerning the varied experiences he had 
undergone, and the boy truthfully and 
simply told his story from the day of his 
arrival at the farmer’s to the date of his 
meeting with his uncle. 

As his uncle listened to Edmund’s modest 
account of his adventures, Mr. Merton’s 
practical mind could but acknowledge the 
business instinct that had prompted the boy 
to turn to account his love for drawing. 
Wherever his fortunes had been cast, — at 
home, on the farm with the old man, on 


296 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, 

board the fishing-schooner, then after the 
shipwreck when he made pictures to pur- 
chase food, again among the Indians, and last 
of all when with the profile artist, — every- 
where and under all circumstances the boy's 
artistic nature had asserted itself ; and the 
practical man of business at last under- 
stood that it was the voice of God speak- 
ing through the boy, and that it must be 
obeyed. As this conviction became clear 
to him, he resolved that henceforth his 
education should be in a direction to de- 
velop that talent. 

As the train neared his old home, Ed- 
mund’s impatience hardly allowed him to 
keep his seat; and during the drive from the 
depot, as one familiar landmark after an- 
other appeared, he felt like shouting aloud 
in his joy, as he would in greeting old and 
dear friends. 

As they entered the driveway that led to 
his old home, the West- wind, that had fol- 


AND THE WANDERER. 


297 


lowed him through so many scenes, seemed 
to become as excited as the boy himself, and 
rushed along by the Brook, making it fairly 
leap with joy. It shook the long, silvery 
^ branches of the white Birch until every leaf 
danced with pleasure, and threw itself against 
the prim Fir-tree until she fairly quivered 
with joy, and in her excitement sent down 
a shower of needles that made her spare 
branches look more bare than ever. 

As the wanderer passed the old Oak-tree, 
it swayed its aged branches until they 
creaked with emotion, and rustled its leaves 
as if to murmur a welcome ; and unable to 
contain his emotions longer, Edmund waved 
his cap above his head and shouted out the 
glad feeling that was swelling his heart. 

Kate and Fred came racing across the 
lawn, following the carriage with wild shouts 
up to the steps of the house, where Ed- 
mund’s aunt stood waiting to receive him. 
And there, secure in the arms of his friends, 


298 THE WINDS, THE WOODS, ETC. 

let US leave the little wanderer whom we 
have followed through so many varied 
scenes ; although we would gladly catch a 
glimpse of him in his prosperous manhood, 
— a hard-working and successful artist, 
happy in the profession that is a source of 
joy to him and a pride to his friends. 




















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